


Bone Wars

by fenrislorsrai



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: American History, Angst, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Dinosaurs, Eventual Comfort, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Geology, Historical, Horses, Paleontology, Panic Attacks, Pining, Rats, Self-Reflection, Western, post st. james breakup, really its a mule
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25564033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenrislorsrai/pseuds/fenrislorsrai
Summary: Crowley travels abroad to 1878 America to rack up some points with Hell as he can get involved in scientific debates over evolution and set two paleontologists up to be the worst versions of themselves. He’s not actually hurting anyone while doing it either, just making them question things.  Crowley’s really good at that.  But all alone with nobody familiar around he’s really questioning dinosaurs. What kind of joke is this and why does it seem to be on him?They’d gone to a seven course New Year’s Eve dinner in 1853 as part of an event to increase interest in the dinosaur models about to be installed at the Crystal Palace. Look at what humans had dreamed up based on a few bones! It was all a lark then.It was a public function where influential folks were invited. They could both be there. They knew the right people to arrange it.  And it was such a small space inside the model of the iguanodon!  They were right next to each other. There was nowhere else they could be seated. They were so close. The food had been good, the wine even better, and the feel of Aziraphale’s leg pressed against his own was exquisite.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 19
Collections: Can't no preacher man save my soul, Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. Lost Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No serious content warnings, but the following things are mentioned in this chapter:
> 
>   * Crowley expresses a fear of drowning as unresolved trauma from the Flood 
>   * Extinction and the life lost in the Flood is discussed 
>   * Crowley is having issues with time loss, possible dissociation but realizes he needs to _do_ something about it
> 


Crowley had gotten quite good at riding the telegraph lines on short hops around England. Taking the transatlantic cable shouldn’t be that different and yet… If something went wrong on that long jump, he was on the bottom of the ocean. He’d survive it likely enough, he was a _demon_ , he could use up all his power to save himself so long as he didn’t panic. But the idea of if something did go wrong, he’d end up beneath endless fathoms of dark, crushing water as if the whole world was now flooded…that would do him a great deal more mental harm than physical. But it was worth it to not be almost a fortnight aboard a ship, with no pleasant company to distract him from the fact there was no land on the horizon. Just a whole ocean. Better to do it as fast as possible. So here he was on Valentia Island station to question why he’d ever thought living on an island was a good idea. 

The trips between the stations in the UK weren’t too bad as he had the message to cling to. He liked riding his own name best as an almost sigil to focus on but could ride other messages when necessary. The one thing that frequently tripped him up was when operators made an error and switched his carefully spelled Crowley to Crawly. It was jarring enough he’d sometimes spill out at the next station completely unconcealed to hiss his displeasure at a terrified operator that it was ‘ _Crow-ley_ , get it right!’ 

There were no intermittent stations in the transatlantic cable so it shouldn't be an issue. There was no one along that long, long line to mess this up but him. He just needed to stay focused. He’d pioneered this technique, this was just a longer ride than he’d ever tried before. He could do this. He leaned over the operator and made sure they clearly saw how his name was spelled. C-r-o-w-l-e-y, got it. _Crowley will arrive today._

And then a quick snap to make the operator think he’d left and stopped being an insufferable git about how his name was spelled. There were just a few other messages in the queue first and then it was being tapped out and he was slithering down the line to North America. 

It was _unpleasant_ in ways he hadn’t been prepared for, even with the trip across the line in the Irish sea to get here. That had been fast enough he didn’t have time to do anything but hang on. Now he had time to think, to feel, and to worry. He was both aware and unaware of the surroundings travelling along the long line between Ireland and Newfoundland. He was speeding along the cable listening to the difference in the rhythm for this long transit and the sound of interference from the vast water column pressing down from above. A slight shudder and a sense of nearby _life_ as some great fish investigated the power running through the cable like a great bright light arcing through the darkness to its electrosenses. Clinging to this message seemed to be taking forever subjectively but a check of his precise interior sense of time and its flow said it had been less than a minute. It was usually only a few seconds between stations. But this was one long shout along endless, endless miles of cable and it took nearly a full minute before he was received at the other end by an operator who yelped as someTHING emerging from line to the message _Crowley will arrive today_. 

“I’m here.” He laid a hand on their shoulder, willing it to stop trembling now that he was far, far from those vast depths again. “Where do I post a new message?” 

The operator pointed at the door and choked out directions. A snap of shaky fingers and the operator would have no memory of this interaction. He wouldn’t have to go back that way for… he didn’t know how long. That was almost as unsettling as the trip itself. He’d just focus on the job for now, make some trouble. 

[](https://www.rainydaypaperback.com/media/files/AO3/bonewars/eohippusmodel.jpg)

Eohippus

A few quick hops by overland telegraph and he was soon enough in the heart of a debate that would leave him with deeply troubling questions of his own. He already knew this would be a trying assignment as Hell didn’t know what it wanted. Go make some trouble in American academic circles over this evolution business. Hell knew it should do _something_ , but it wasn’t sure what outcome to aim for. The natural inclination was to push forward the theories that rejected God, but that raised troubling questions for Hell. What humans believed shouldn’t matter, yet it very much did. The Dark Council didn’t seem afraid so much as… thoughtful. The last time they had looked this pensive had ended quite poorly for Crowley. Well, even worse for the one whose words of forgiveness had caused all kinds of introspection Hell wasn’t ready to deal with. Still wasn’t ready to deal with. 

The foundational documents and ideas had originated in Britain so he’d done quite a bit of research before leaving. Now, however, the argument had moved west. Darwin’s most ardent defenders and foes were in the former colonies. Darwin had said nothing about how it applied to humans directly but the implications had woven themselves into the rhetoric that eventually resulted in a very real war. Not that it had been over this exactly, but it had become another tool in the arsenal of those arguing over who counted as people. And now after that war it was put to new use arguing about the new structures taking shape and whether they were divinely mandated in some way. That the suffering of some was just a sign that they had been deemed _unfit_ and not only should not survive, to help them in any way went against God’s plan. 

Crowley did not quite understand all the details of this new idea of predestination via an impersonal mechanism. But with each fossil dug up, paleontologists claimed to see a little bit more of that relentless march of progress towards _perfection_. That the Great Plan might have been written in literal stone was enough to get both side’s attention. 

However, Crowley knew he had already missed large portions of the argument. Even with new faster communications there was a delay in work making it across the ocean to Britain. There was also a question of quality and accuracy as piracy was common. Aziraphale had _opinions_ about that. Ones Crowley hadn’t heard in awhile, but he could work up qute the head of steam about the subject. He missed hearing it. 

He also knew how much he was missing of the discussion just from his initial readings in Britain. At this time when no one knew that much about the subject because it was so new, there should be less distinction between those that had means and those that didn’t. It should not be so high a barrier and yet this was distinctly a gentleMAN’s pursuit. Everyone knew who had been the source of so many of the fossils on display at British museums and yet no papers he read carried Mary Anning’s name on them. That was the wrong sort of person to carry things forward. He knew there was likely an even greater disconnect he wasn’t seeing yet, based on what had been _selected_ to be taken overseas. It had to have the right pedigree to be worth passing on. 

And so it was here as well. Only a _gentleman_ could be the right kind of eccentric to pursue this sort of knowledge. There shouldn’t be any sort of economics involved or else it was not suitably pure. If they had visibly earned money in some way to support this or directly from their inquiries there was a sense of _taint_ to it. A great many selected their companions based on who could give them that appearance of that ease. If they could tend home, prepare specimens, and write up their notes so they could put their names on them, so much the better. Several of the universities even prided themselves on not even paying their professors because they were the right sort to not need something so trivial as _money_. They pursued it from the sheer goodness of their heart without regard for what allowed them to do so. They were the _right_ sort of person to speak on these subjects. 

And yet there was also a sense of morality to it as well. That money had to come from somewhere and there was suddenly so very, very much money in so few hands. This theory itself was a new way to justify that it was concentrated in the hands of so few. There was a certain taint to that, to make so much money. Visibly. It was better if it just existed and always had, as part of the natural order of things. Anything their ancestors had done was entirely justified of course. Their ancestors had just been so much _better_ than others, they’d won the struggle and so it was of course natural the way things were now. Had always been. All the difficulties of their lessers were natural occurrences showing off that difference. It was only _natural_. 

There were a growing number of proponents of that strain and it seemed like Hell would likely favor that for being able to reap the most souls. Yet there was something unsettling in promoting that doctrine. They had _lost_. It was a human idea. It had nothing to do with them. It was not true. They would win in the end. But repeat a thing enough times and it becomes part of you. 

That particular version left him uneasy and Hell had not given him specific orders to pursue that yet. So he decided to chase the other thread that Heaven was more likely to pursue, as encouraging faith in the truth of the Word. It was what he knew to be true, that all of humanity had originally come from two people. Fortunately he was on better footing with that argument. He’d had many years to become acquainted with every version of scripture in many translations… and all its misprints. He’d catch up with the current explosion of American dinosaurs while he was here. They’d originally been Britain’s dinosaurs but now there were great beasts turning up here and driving these conversations at a furious pace. They were much more _exciting_ and mysterious than what he’d focused on before leaving, which had been botany. 

He had _questions_ and knew exactly who to ask them of. He came bearing gifts pressed between the pages of some recent monographs from the Royal Society he was fairly sure hadn’t made it over here yet. Aziraphale would be horrified at him using books to press specimens, but he’d never know about it. Right now it would buy him an audience with Asa Gray at Harvard. From there he could slither his way through all of the botanist’s contacts, asking ever more _questions_. Gray sat at the center of much of the scientific discussion in the United States related to evolution. Had written the greatest defense of the entire concept while also adhering to the idea that a divine maker’s plan could be seen in it. Gray could make all the introductions Crowley would need. Once he had made himself well known in Boston, he’d be able to follow those contacts south to pursue the great bone diggers that were firing up the general public’s imagination. 

Soon enough he had his introductions and after several weeks pinging around town, he landed an invitation to the Saturday Club. He was not enthusiastic about the lengthy meal involved but spread out as it was he could pick at choice bits and drown the rest in alcohol. He could speak at length on several relevant subjects and when he was confused merely ask questions so as to understand. Some _were_ genuinely for his own understanding, but many were to insert that thread of doubt into others, to make them tear at their own beliefs until they crumbled. 

In many instances, he could get away with saying he hadn’t read whatever item was being discussed now as he’d so recently arrived from England so had not received it in a timely manner. He would so _love_ to borrow it however. Then he would spend an evening reading, occasionally warping time to extend the night by hours or days to his perception. But warping time while reading a description of a time he knew never existed was making him feel unmoored from the time he was trying to exist in. Was he _sure_ that time described here did not exist? That great blur of Before Time was becoming increasingly unreal to him as he read convincing lies about it. Probable lies. He wasn’t sure how he felt all about this. Exhausted. He mostly felt exhausted. 

That great Time-Before-Time was just as subjectively long as he remembered, but also it was full of things he didn’t _remember_. There were a great many things that happened on Earth that existed in places he couldn’t see them in the Before Time when “days'' were vastly longer than his entire existence as a demon. He knew other pieces of Creation had occurred but he hadn’t perceived them directly so he couldn’t argue the details. He hated having to question his own memory and perception of his own history. These were dangerous questions to him personally. He knew what damage they had done him already. It made him even more snappish and sarcastic in discussions about how they _knew_ these things when they weren’t there. He _had_ been there…. But he really hadn’t. Some of these theories might actually be partially right. 

When he wasn’t reading, Crowley spent many evenings in salons looking at cabinets of curiosities. Some were active working things, displaying the things which excited the owner’s curiosity and drove their research. Many others were just a new form of showing off the owner’s wealth and power. Instead of the glittering gems and religious artwork of past centuries, they were now full of bones from a time before time, mocking him with questions. The bones of saints were replaced with those of forgotten beasts or ones looted from the graves of humans that they didn’t fully acknowledge _as_ humans. Some still bore faint bits of dried sinew, telling him how recently the bones had been pulled down off a burial platform. 

Fossils were supposed to be a joke, but it increasingly seemed like it was one aimed squarely at him. Had this all happened while he was staring into the heart of a star, watching it swirl and form as he coaxed it towards the desired shape? Had this all happened in that blind middle part of regulated time he had been unable to comprehend until he Fell? Had it been in front of him the whole time and utterly invisible to him, like a horse unable to see what was directly touching its nose while still having a perfect view to either side? 

He’d of course _seen_ fossils before. He had heard humans various stories about where they came from, what they meant. Had meant. That was changing as well. He’d seen reconstructions of what humans thought these bones belonged to. Aziraphale thought it delightful that they were finally getting away from the whole idea of these great, strange bones in the ground having been from creatures drowned in The Flood. _Thankfully._ There’d been far too many people and creatures that died in that. What had any of them done? There was another piece of time he didn’t want to contemplate and examine. He knew its exact length, could refer to it precisely with that internal sense of time and yet, and yet, it seemed so much longer as if he’d warped time to perceive it more keenly. He knew quite plainly what creatures had died in the Flood. He had seen them suffer and die for… what? 

There was one piece of this whole debate he was sure was true. Extinction was a rather new idea. It was hard for people to believe these great fossil beasts were just… gone. They weren’t just hiding in some unexplored corner. There were almost no unexplored corners left where they could be hiding. No more _‘here there be dragons’_. They had never existed in Crowley’s memory, but he knew that God _could_ have destroyed them. She’d done it before. He had seen it first hand. 

Aziraphale had teased him at the time that he surely knew how animals worked, that’s why they needed two unicorns. Well, yes, of course he _knew_ that. But God wasn’t wiping out all the humans, just some of them, as awful as that was. Surely there would be unicorns elsewhere… but there hadn't been. Neither of them had expected that. There were a great many other species that were wiped away. But they were _gone_ in that sudden great event. They did not live out years alone, standing on hilltops and calling out for companionship and finding _nothing_. 

If these beasts had all gone extinct, that “never again” had been a cruel, cruel joke by a God who wiped things out of Creation on a regular basis. By a God who only promised to stop now that others could _see_. He hoped these beasts had never existed. Had they? If they hadn’t then what was the message intended here? Who was it written for? Was it all written into the Great Plan somewhere that these would give some kind of message to people who wouldn’t be able to read it until just before the end of the Great Plan? 

But the idea that the Earth had been created with that false history written in was just as bad. The stars had been hung in the sky and lit during the time that that false narrative would have been written. He knew part of that story. He knew his perception of time didn’t align with the timeline for the Earth’s creation as he knew it OR that false history either. He knew some of those stars, knew their histories, knew how old they were, how old _he_ was. That was his history. He hadn’t been involved so much with the other things. Making life had not been his job. That was God alone. Had these beasts been created just to be destroyed to write out some message? What sin had these creatures committed that had warranted an even more cataclysmic destruction than The Flood without even someone to witness and mourn their passing? 

Time had been… different before it was restructured to fit with the flow of human perceived time. Days were different. His internal chronometer hadn’t originally been meant to deal with the days and years of what he now perceived as Time. It was one of the things that had been restructured in the Fall, having his sense of time wildly reworked and reorganized. It had all been extremely long and extremely short at the same time. 

He could still feel that alternate flow of time if he really focused. One instant was stretched out beyond human comprehension to kindle a star in, adjust it, tweak it, move it around, and then switch out to the longer view of time progressing in “days” of time beyond the entire breadth of how long he’d existed as a demon. This time he existed in now was an endless sort of middle distance locked in a fixed amount. Wiggling all the way out of that structure took effort but he could still _do_ it. He couldn’t alter time anymore to the extent he’d need to kindle a star and he lacked the spark of Creation anymore to be able to do so even if he could. But he could stretch out time when he needed time to complete things, to let his brain put together pieces. It wasn’t that effective for physical tasks as it took such a toll on his corporation that he spent longer recovering than it would have taken him to do it normally. But he could warp time, or at least his perception of it, in short bursts to give himself time to think. But even that took its toll as he then had to realign his perceptions to be able to interact with humans. This was his normal now. He’d changed to fit in this new time. BEEN changed. But he _remembered_. 

He suspected it was why he took to sleep so readily. It gave this time he was stuck with now some structure and logic, forcing him into perceiving it as humans did. Sometimes it still got away from him. What should have been a short nap sometimes stretched into months or years as his ability to adjust had been sapped to the point where he couldn’t exist in this time scale. Sometimes it went the opposite way with him zoning out for a few seconds and a great deal of time having passed for him internally but only a few seconds externally. He owned several watches as a way to bring him back to the here and now, tell him when he was on a human time scale. 

Was that the whole joke, that time was not really as fixed as anyone thought? Did anyone in Heaven or Hell know what was happening? HAD happened? Or as soon as they weren’t looking at something directly was it being shuffled around like a huxter's card trick? 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to have the same issue with time. For him, it seemed to pass like it did for humans. He just had been around a lot longer than any human. He didn’t seem to NEED rest in the same way to try and force his system to perceive time. He wasn’t constantly trying to run a system at a speed it was never designed for. Probably. Crowley didn’t know anymore. If this was all part of the Great Plan then his mismatched system was just as much part of the Plan as anything else. Was it all fixed, did he have any choice in the matter? Was the apparent error in how he worked how it had been designed in the first place? 

This assignment had him living a great deal of time in suspended moments simply thinking, trying to make sense of it all. He needed that extra time to read the scientific books and papers he needed to be able to insinuate himself into these salons and ask the right questions. But constantly adjusting his perception of time like that was simultaneously breaking down his ability to interact normally with humans. Fortunately, these were people he did not know so they couldn’t see how disoriented he was becoming. He couldn’t either until his stuttering started to render him incomprehensible to humans. It wasn’t that he wasn’t _trying_ to communicate, it was that he was losing hold on time and overcompressing it mentally, so his poor corporation struggled to produce all the sounds at once. An entire sentence was compressed into a strangled “ngk”. 

Aziraphale had often been able to decipher the general meaning of those noises anyway and ask the right questions to get him back in the here and now. But even if he understood that Crowley was communicating something he never really understood _why_ he was having trouble expressing it in the first place. 

Aziraphale never seemed to have this problem with time distortion. Crowley suspected he was younger than him. He didn’t know how much younger. He didn’t even know how to quantify the amount of time involved in a way he could even _ask_. A few days younger might not mean “days” in any way Aziraphale understood days. To even begin asking what should have been a simple question meant talking about things from before the Fall. Crowley didn’t even know if Aziraphale had been created before or after that. They just… couldn’t discuss something that personal, that painful. They couldn’t discuss _anything_ right now. 

Nobody really discussed any of what happened before the Fall. He desperately wanted to know what all this was supposed to _mean_. The Arrangement had made it seem like they were very close to each other. They could fill in for each other well enough. The differences were cosmetic. And yet now… had Aziraphale ever _understood_ him at all? They hadn’t talked about a lot of things they probably needed to talk about to actually understand each other. But he was glad they hadn’t now. They weren’t …. Whatever they were. 

He was losing time more and more frequently now, sliding between all these salons and drawing rooms, insinuating himself into them one after another. He never stayed anywhere long enough to feel like he was truly _there_. Each invitation led him to a new invitation so he could weave a web of doubt and discord. He never stayed anywhere long enough to be identified as the source of ideas, or questions. They were whispered in corners during intense discussions with the original serpent. He was just _asking_. Until that question made its home in the listener’s heart and mind, sprouting and growing and branching off from that original poisonous fruit. 

This constant shifting between places and perspectives was wearing. He wasn’t sure where the months had gone. He spent equal parts fueling this ever growing tangle of self-replicating questions and sleeping off his reading binges. How long had it been? Two _years_? When had THAT happened? 

Hell was pleased at least. Things were really heating up between the two great camps, angered over all these _questions_ with no answers. Heaven still was not directly involved in trying to steer the debate. It was exactly the sort of discord Hell had hoped for, that sowing of doubt, of that ever branching possibility of change. It was at least the sort of discord Crowley could get behind, that choices _mattered_. He had to believe that. That he wasn’t trapped in a past and future that had had every tiny change mapped out. He had to believe that there was room for growth, for change. Otherwise he must believe that the God that had written this Plan was more monstrous than any demon in Hell. 

But he could feel himself starting to succumb to his own questions. He needed to make sense of some of it. He needed to slow down. Or perhaps speed up. He didn’t know anymore. He needed to see these bones as the humans did for a little bit. To see that vast spill of time as had been laid out before their perceptions. He needed to sleep and wake and just interact with regular humans and see how this all fit together. He needed to see how this was originally laid out before humanity without it having been claimed and marked and declared to belong to someone specific. 

Many of his whispers were being undone by the words of others Humans could _choose_ but having those reinforcing structures of society meant that there was only so much change that could happen. With less of that structure to reinforce it, there would be less there to keep people from being their real and unabashed self. Let him see what they would really choose when removed from what held them back. Let them choose Hell if they wished. 

He turned his tongue to less intellectual pursuits and instead whispered about that sense of ownership of this knowledge that he had sensed drove his main targets. Those beneath you, your rivals, they seek to steal your fame. Don’t you wish your name upon it all? Claim it, make it yours. But what is this, such great knowledge to be had in this new place that is turning up so very many secrets and your Adversary has staked it out as theirs…. Are you going to let them have it? 

Once there were sufficient rumbles of avarice he could go to the source and wait for them to come, to see them without society to hide themselves behind. He would make them all come to him. Come face your demons in a graveyard of God’s own making. 


	2. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1879\. Crowley tries to embed themself in the digs near Como Bluffs before their big temptation. They decide to present themself differently at each site so as to be seen as estranged siblings.
> 
> This works relatively well... but probably wasn't the best choice for their mental and emotional health. :/
> 
> Note that there's going to be three different pronouns used here. He/him when its clearly referring to guise as Anthony and She/her as Ash. When I've meant it to be about Crowley without that mask on, I've used they/them. The flashback to 1853 uses he/him as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter
> 
>   * Crowley is pretending to be their own “sibling”, so brief accusation of “you’re just a man in a costume” for about a half second. Not played for laughs
>   * a severe injury is mentioned, but not described
>   * Crowley expresses some self hatred
>   * mentioned substance use: tobacco in the flashback 
> 


The foreman looked at him suspiciously, eying the dark spectacles and the red hair. “Yer from that other dig. Get out of here. Gonna have to try harder at sabotage.” 

“I am not.” Crowley tried to project sincerity. The foreman just sighed at him. 

“Look, there's only so many redheads in dark spectacles out here. You’re that Crowley fellow from other dig. I’m not stupid. I have a _list_ of who not to hire.” 

Blast. He could just miracle him into forgetting, but things where they’d made a _structure_ to remind people of important details like this, he’d have to keep doing it. He could only patch it up so many times before the whole thing unravelled, usually at the worst point. To be able to actually focus on what he was supposed to be doing, he needed a self-reinforcing lie. 

“Yeah, yeah, you got me.” He put hands up and gave him a more genuinely sincere smile. “I’ll tell them they got to be sneakier. Unless....” The smile turned back towards insincere charm. “You want to make me a better offer?” 

“Get out. You’d just try to get them to pay you to spy on us and get us both to pay you.” 

Crowley barked out a laugh at that. “You got me there!” 

If they were this paranoid already, getting their trust would be difficult. But once he had it, he could wreck utter havoc. 

* * *

Crowley was back but for a different job this time and with a totally different appearance. She had a plan this time. It might work. And if it did, she could freely walk around the camp area and nobody would much notice her. 

The foreman was eyeing her with a mix of displeasure and confusion.. “Oh come on now, you’re just trying again.” 

“Trying what?” 

“Yer from the other dig.” 

“What other dig?” 

“Look, I’m not stupid.” 

“I didn’t think so. Why would you say from another dig?” 

“There’s only so many redheads with dark spectacles around here, though I guess you really are loyal if you’ll go this far.” He was eyeing her outfit now. 

“Wait, you said a redhead in spectacles?” 

“Yeah, _you_ , don’t play dumb.” 

“ANTHONY! That scoundrel! Besmirching the family name!” She stomped her foot for emphasis and huffed like someone else she knew. The foreman was now squinching his features together, looking increasingly confused. 

“Two of you? Two redheads with dark glasses and the same accent? That doesn’t seem likely.” His brows were furrowed as he looked her over. He clearly knew he was looking at the same person but was also confused enough to be persuaded to discard that knowledge. 

“Both bad eyes and red hair run in the family, though I’d like to disown that _scoundrel!_ Always up to no good. I come out here to get away from him and of course he’d be in the same area, it's like this family is _cursed_!” Well it was if you counted being a demon as _cursed_.  
“So what is your name?” His face was still pulled tight, not really believing this just yet. 

“Ashtoreth, old family name. Ash is fine. I would have gone by Crowley, but apparently _someone_ has already sullied it out here.” She sniffed loudly. 

“And you want to be a digger?” He seemed more skeptical over this than that she was actually someone else. 

“Do I look like I want to dig holes?” 

“So you’re here for the uh…” 

“Your washerwomen and seamstress went off to get married didn’t she?” 

“We hadn’t even started looking for a new one yet, how’d you know about that?” Well, Crowley had sort of nudged the fellow into finally asking, so had set up the absence but couldn’t exactly say that. 

“You know how women like to show off when they’ve finally landed a man. I’m widowed, so I’m not looking again, in case you’re worried about that. I do so _miss_ him. I couldn’t even think of anyone taking his place” She realized she’d sounded a bit too truthful there. She did very much miss him. _The bastard_. She focused back on the foreman, extended her more occult senses to try and feel what he desired and hoped it wouldn’t be her. She managed to turn a relieved noise at what he wanted into what sounded more like a believably sad sigh. “I’m really very good at mending. You’ll hardly believe it was ever damaged. I can patch up a tent so it’ll never leak again.” 

“That’s a bold claim. I have just the tent for you to try it on…” Jackpot. One finally dry tent and she was in. It was just a trick of a little bit of miracle mixed with enough actual sewing to make it look believable. If only mending other things were so easy... 

* * *

* * *

One tent that withstood a conveniently summoned cloudburst and the foreman would back up her story every time someone remarked on her resemblance to someone else. He was a solid man that enjoyed his work but didn’t like having to organize all the parts of running the dig. So having someone utterly reliable to make sure people had clean clothes and tents that didn’t leak too badly was worth fighting for. 

Anthony had no such protection at the other camp, but he had about a week to get settled in before news of his ‘sibling’ made its way back to Cope’s dig. The foreman there had rather pointed questions about his loyalty but no suspicion they were the same person. The digs were close enough together that both used the same railway station to send crates back East, but were far enough apart that it took most of the day to travel between the two sites… unless you were a demon. 

But that simmering suspicion of the other dig did most of his job for him. Just a little nudge here and there would push things to their natural, and unpleasant, conclusions. When they leaned on occult senses to figure out what people desired, why were they here, it often stayed their hand. So many just wanted enough money to live or enough to move on to somewhere better. This was potentially the highest paying job they could get if they struck it big. More reliable than gold, just as backbreaking as the railroad, but still a gamble full of hard work. 

Creeping about at night was often when they’d sense wildcatters trying to find a new strike to make the two groups bid against each other to secure it. Nighttime was also the prime time for trying to steal something from the other dig, either fossils or equipment. Everyone was already being their worst selves under the cover of darkness. They didn’t have to add to that. If the humans occasionally felt an ominous presence as of something flying above them in the darkness, well, that was up to them how they chose to react to that. 

Daytime though, that took a little more skill to work in full view and spread mayhem about without having it traced back to them. Crowley regretted getting a job as a digger at Cope’s quarry as he actually had been seen working. Minor miracles could keep him from being too fatigued or straining his body, but the sheer amount of dust and filth was what really got to him. It was suspicious if he stayed too clean. He was filthy in places that rubbed and chafed and it was a struggle keeping dust out. He tore trousers several times before swapping them out for something a bit sturdier and lower class than he was used to. But the heavy, blue, denim fabric kept him insulated from the sharp bits of stone when he knelt down and he could shove bits of fossils into pockets to be occasionally “caught” with. He never got caught with anything fireable, just unremarkable bits and pieces. Just enough so it seemed like he’d taken an opportunity like everyone else and could hand it over with a “oh, I forgot I stuck that in there so it wouldn’t get lost in the dust.” It was both true and a plausible excuse at the same time. 

At the end of the day he’d find the only clean parts were what was behind his glasses. He had to cut down on how clean he kept himself because it was attracting some attention and interested queries on how exactly he managed it. He’d just have to wash by mundane means and use the miracles to keep dust out of his underwear. 

They didn’t really have days “off”, but switching to working Marsh’s site was sometimes close. Not only could they be clean, they were rather expected to BE clean. What kind of washerwoman didn’t look like she washed? 

If she actually had to DO the wash, it would have been just as tiring as the other work and she’d have spent just as much time on it. All she really did was pick it up and drop it off, while being freely able to walk into even private areas. Laundry was a trying task if it couldn’t just be done via miracles. So long as it was out of sight and she was seen picking it up and returning it, how it got done was no man’s concern. Women however… 

There were quite a few down in the town proper and they very much wanted to know how to speed up such a tedious task. A secret, that’s how she stayed employed up here with all these rough fellows. But she would occasionally volunteer to take a particularly hopeless bit of clothing away to work her magic on. All she asked was that she could drop by in the evening to do some mending together and they’d talk about the fellows in town. 

There was afterall a town by the railroad station with actual families and small shops in it, now overrun with fossil hunters and diggers. She could miracle things mended as well but it gave her hands something to do while she talked with people. She was pumping them for info on what was going on, rumors, gossip, and so on. It was the most traditional way of gathering that social info and in trade she would get that terrible blood stain out of a shirt that was probably not worth saving. The human that had been wearing it, well, tell me more about what happened... 

She made sure to drop by late that same night to bring it back, miraculously clean and all the spots it was wearing through were suddenly a lot less threadbare. It was no trouble to stop by. She would be quick so as not to wake the woman’s poor husband after he’d had such a terrible injury. If the man in question suddenly drifted into the deepest sleep he’d gotten since the accident as the fever broke, that was, well, that was making sure that she paid well for the info of where exactly that dynamite accident had occurred. Couldn’t get anymore info from such a good source if he died. That was _all_. 

As Ash, she occasionally spread rumors about Anthony during her evenings socializing. It gave a reason for why they were never together despite living near each other. Some of what she said was outright lies. Rumors that he had particularly unspecified and perverse tastes that you wouldn’t want to walk in on made for juicy gossip to pass around while also being too shocking to ever actually ask Anthony about. She made it clear no one would ever see him in Sunday church, he’d probably combust what with his sinning. If he’d managed to wake up on time what with the drinking. _Scoundrel._ She managed to avoid the same church by volunteering to help with food and wrangling little ones that couldn’t sit through a service. The priest was always under the impression she’d gotten communion at some point and nobody could fault the piety of someone so giving of their time. 

Some of the things she said about him were true. Perhaps a little too true. Sometimes she didn’t realize until after she said them how true they were and how much she genuinely hated that part of herself. She was a _demon_. She was supposed to be hated. If these people _knew_ her, they’d hate her just as much. 

* * *

* * *

Having to swap physically between the two sites during the day so often would have been exhausting during normal circumstances, but the extra power Hell had allocated them for the mission mostly made up for it. Crowley found several cracks in the stone at the two places that were just the right size for a terrifyingly large serpent to slip between when they needed to be seen at both sites on the same day. Well not _seen_ as a giant snake. Giant snake was a good way to NOT be seen for a bit as it would cause a ruckus at both sites and often panic horses so they had a chance to slip to the right position in the chaos. 

They could slide into the great darkness in the stones where no human could see how the holes connected and bend the space in between so as soon as the tail vanished at one end they had a few seconds of darkness before emerging at the other so many miles away. The more firmly people believed the great hogback was littered with snake filled holes, the easier it got to traverse it quickly. There could be snakes anywhere and everywhere. Belief was flexible that way. And equally dangerous. They just had to keep a careful balance with their presence being common enough to make the transit easy and not so common that the humans felt the need to stuff every hole full of dynamite to get rid of them. 

As that grew easy to do, the mental strain grew greater as they needed to insinuate themself into both sites. They were trying to live two separate lives in contrast to each other when their usual model for contrast was distinctly not here. They weren't filling in for someone now, they couldn’t pull on that mask of being someone else entirely. Both Anthony and Ash were versions of himself, herself, themself, the lines were very blurred and some days they keenly felt that they had pulled on a mask and persona that was not them today while still being them in some way. They longed to be the other version of themself. To easily slide between those versions and have their companion easily recognize them in every guise. 

But this was not about their desires. This was about other people’s desires and exploiting them for Hell. They were a demon and their comfort was _irrelevant,_ even if it was something as simple as being called by the name they preferred. They hadn't been Crowley for months now. They had to _think_ about responding to the other names. They were just masks, they weren’t them, and yet they very much were. 

So they needed to focus on the set up. They needed to make sure they were properly integrated into both sites before their owners paid a visit. So even if they noticed them and grew suspicious there were those built up layers to ensure that miracles didn’t unravel. It was why they’d chosen to be out here. You could brute force miracles to a certain extent, but they unravelled under certain types of scrutiny. And things that affected the mind, even more so. 

The whispers were drowned out by the structures and voices of others around them urging prudence, temperance, to not be so harsh. To be less. To fit in. To not be so obviously themself. Here there was a certain lawlessness. There weren't all the reinforcing structures of society. Oh, certainly the locals had their own society to do that, it's why she was insinuating herself into their lives as Ash, but Cope and Marsh would arrive as outsiders. Here they were stripped of their usual layers of protection and reserve and would be vulnerable to that sort of whispering as doubts crept in and kept them up. The great yawning emptiness of the night calling out to be filled with the largest, loudest version of self. 

Certainly they’d been prey to the same sort of doubts and uncomfortable silence creeping into their mind. It was why what had initially been one or two nights a week sitting and sewing the completely human way had turned into her visiting with the town women practically every night. It gave her restless hands something to do. Her restless mind, well, she was never the chatterbox Aziraphale was but she wasn’t good at silence right now. Crowley had grown used to companionship. A very specific kind of companionship. Sitting and sewing let her scratch at that desire in all the ways she probably shouldn’t. She’d thought it would be an easy dodge to say she was widowed. It would keep men from bothering her and explain all the black. 

But sitting and sewing in the evening, patching up all the battered bits of clothes that happened at that sort of site where every scrap of cloth had to be used and reused because no telling when they could afford to buy more, there was talk. It was all very useful to her for figuring out all the little interpersonal spats and to catch the general tenor of the town. But such talk sometimes turned to men and well, her dearly departed husband was of _interest_. She had to give a little to keep information flowing and sometimes ended up giving a bit too much. How he looked, his smile, his infuriating mannerisms, his kindness to everyone including occasionally her... And yet she didn’t even have a keepsake of him. She knew why, it was too risky. But still. She glossed over exactly how she got here or why _here_ but everyone seemed to have a story of how and why _here_ , under this great open sky. Some had fled, a few had come. Crowley was reluctantly realizing she’d fled. 

And still the stupid place reminded him of him anyway. It tempted her to say too much. To feel too much. To be too much. One evening the talk again turned to why _here_ and she found herself talking about dinosaurs. About how they reminded her of Aziraphale and made him seem both very close and far away at the same time. She had to leave out a great deal of details that she couldn’t share with humans, but how Aziraphale _had_ made her feel, that was mostly true. 

But when she went back to her tent that evening she felt unmoored, distanced from her feelings but also _wanting_ them. She hadn’t wanted them for a long time. They’d _hurt_. They still hurt, but she wanted to actually _feel_ them. Understand them. 

There’d been so much more she’d felt that she hadn’t said aloud. She’d worn another face then. Talking about it, looking like this, so different than when she had been… with… Aziraphale made it almost bearable to talk about. That mask gave her enough distance to feel safe examining that memory. Now though… she carefully undressed. She swapped over to the underclothes she’d wear as Anthony the next day. They combed their fingers through their hair to look more like that other self. 

That felt like less of a mask, to wear a face and body closer to that memory, but there was still that distance. Anthony wasn’t really them either. They were both and neither face they wore right now. 

“Crowley.” They hadn’t heard their own name in months. Hadn’t really been just, them, for… they didn’t even know how long. They didn’t even sound like themself anymore. They repeated their name to themself several more times as they lay down, trying to determine what sounded right. They repeated it dozens of different ways, each sounding somehow less and like _them_. But they felt like they were getting closer and closer to the right sound somehow. 

“ _Crowley_.” And that was it. So close to the pitch and cadence of the voice they missed. They drew in a shuddering breath and let themself _remember._

“ _Crowley_.” And that was it. So close to the pitch and cadence of the voice he missed. He drew in a shuddering breath and let himself _remember._

* * *

* * *

They’d gone to a seven course New Year’s Eve dinner in 1853 as part of an event to increase interest in the dinosaur models about to be installed at the Crystal Palace. Look at what humans had dreamed up based on a few bones! It was all a lark then. 

It was a public function where influential folks were invited. They could both be there. They knew the right people to arrange it. And it was such a small space inside the model of the iguanodon! They were right next to each other. There was nowhere else they could be seated. They were so close. The food had been good, the wine even better, and the feel of Aziraphale’s leg pressed against his own was exquisite. 

He tried not to sprawl, to not invade Aziraphale’s space. It was too great a temptation, to feel the warmth of him. He carefully pulled his leg away and had a foot follow. He pressed his calf back against that and Aziraphale sighed into what he was eating, remarking on the texture. Crowley felt like he was going to combust. He desperately wanted to know what Aziraphale _wanted_. Was terrified it wasn’t him. So he didn’t try to sense that desire. He just took what was freely offered. 

He resumed his original position and pressed his leg back against Aziraphale’s. He’d have slid closer and pressed his hip to him if there wasn’t a chair in the way. He didn’t know which of them shifted the design so it was no longer a concern. Aziraphale adjusted the napkin in his lap and then there were fingertips briefly on the top of his thigh. That there were two layers of fabric between them didn’t matter. Crowley choked on what he was drinking, but managed to swallow most of it down. 

“There, there dear boy, have some water.” Aziraphale patted him on the back in a totally appropriate manner. He picked up his water glass and held it for him to drink from. His thumb on the glass rested just below Crowley’s lip. The tiniest movement and he could be kissing that hand. 

Aziraphale was next to him so he couldn’t see his expression clearly. He felt like his own face had to be as red as his hair, but it could all be blamed on his current difficulty breathing. The soothing hand rubbing his back shouldn’t be making this harder. It was all very _proper_. 

Aziraphale’s hand stroked right along where his wings connected to his back. He wasn’t touching him. _He very much was_. In front of other people. In front of humans who saw them as good friends. They’d come to the event separately but Aziraphale didn’t deny him in front of others. How could he when Crowley was leaning into his touch as if he was his dearest companion? _He was._

He recovered after that but still felt like he was overheated and likely to combust at any moment. Aziraphale wasn’t quite so forward after that, but he was… familiar. He felt so warm against him. Steady. He wanted more. But he couldn’t believe he’d gotten even this much. He looked to the other side of Aziraphale and there was plenty of space on that side, as tight as the quarters were. There was a similar gap on his own side. They didn’t _have_ to be touching. They could anyway. He wasn’t sure if he dared be the one to reach out. 

He pushed his own dessert over to the angel, claiming he was full. He mostly was, but this let him make a move, make an offer beyond what had been given him. His fingers brushed against Aziraphale’s as he pushed the plate over. He hooked a finger around his pinky briefly, feeling the ring there. He felt like it should have burnt him to touch that signet ring. Aziraphale merely beamed at him and took his hand for a moment. 

“How generous of you.” The smile was genuine but was tinged with something else. 

“I know how you like it.” Crowley desperately wanted to know what he desired. If it was him, he might discorporate right there. Or climb into Aziraphale’s lap. 

“I _do_.” He wasn’t looking at the slice of cake. 

Crowley had no idea what to say and just turned his hand over slightly so he could hold Aziraphale’s hand back. He didn’t close his fingers at all, just let him decide when he wanted to move it. He felt Aziraphale’s pulse thundering under his fingertips. They held hands just slightly too long for it to be polite. Aziraphale withdrew first and resettled his hand under the table. He pushed his leg against Crowley’s so it felt like there was nothing between them at all for how hot it was. 

They had coffee and even more alcohol together, alone at a table with so many others. They were part of the conversation and yet simultaneously removed. Everything seemed to have some additional meaning to it now. Cigars were passed around and he lit Aziraphale’s. His hands shook enough that Aziraphale held his wrist to steady it. He rarely smoked on his own as he found it dulled his sense of smell and reminded him too much of Hell. Seeing Aziraphale wreathed in smoke sent a slight shiver up his spine. It was enough to get the angel’s attention.  
“My dear boy, were you getting a chill?” He gestured at one of the servers “Something hot for my friend, thank you kindly.” _For my friend._ The server had returned with pots of coffee, tea, and an herbal tisane, leaning over the edge of the model to show what was on offer. _For my friend._

“Whatever you think best, angel”. Aziraphale had a cup of tea poured for them both. He took a small sip of tea and wrinkled his nose slightly at the quality before having it topped up. He retrieved the cream and sugar service and added a bit to both before taking another sip and then handing that cup to Crowley. 

“There you go, my dear boy. I shouldn’t want you catching a chill.” Crowley wrapped his hands around the cup. It wasn’t proper at all and yet he wanted to absorb as much of that warmth as he could while it was on offer. Aziraphale’s hip and leg were still pressed against his own. He felt the warmth of that seeping into him. 

Why now? He had no idea. They had the Arrangement of course but they needed to meet carefully, seemingly accidentally and so very little of this was accidental. He’d of course brought the angel certain things, contrived reasons to see him. His bookshop was a great excuse for that. It was a public space. He couldn’t very well throw the demon out just for being there. He was always very careful to be there during shop hours, when he could safely be seen there to be spying on his adversary. Never when it was improper to be there. Never past when he should be there. He never really should be there at all, but it was a pretext. He _could_ be there. But still, it was where the angel was known to be and thus anything beyond hinting at a meeting elsewhere was all that was allowed. It was where other angels knew to find him. Expected him to be. They most certainly didn’t expect him _here_. 

Crowley wanted this to never end. To have this moment suspended forever. He was tempted to stretch out time beyond its normal length just to be with Aziraphale that much longer but that ran the risk of it being marred by discovery. He would take whatever he was given and be happy with that. It was all they could have. It was all that was safe to have. 

There was a sudden jump in the sound level and he realized he’d lost hold of time. He had been living at human speed and yet it had still somehow seemed as distorted as when he truly manipulated it. He had gotten lost just staring at Aziraphale’s eyes. There was singing around them and another round of drinks being poured for celebration. It must be that time. An arbitrary bit of time to mark the New Year independent of the stars and sun. The year had started days ago so far as Crowley was concerned and yet this was going to be ingrained in his memory instead, his sense of time realigned and fit into little human blocks. 

“Happy New Year, my dear boy. May it treat you well.” The hand on his own was soft and strong and he would take whatever it gave him. 

“I hope you get everything you want.” He didn’t dare offer more, ask for more. There was a little crinkle around Aziraphale’s eyes at that, and he could feel him wiggle slightly. To be hidden there among such a raucous crowd they might be invisible but there was no guarantee. He opened up his occult senses slightly and was overwhelmed by a flood of desires around him. He was trying to see if they were seen. He was _seen_. By one very particular person who very much wanted to see him again and Crowley’s hands shook in that grasp. 

“We shall have to see the finished version.” Aziraphale wanted nothing _from_ him. He just wanted to see him. He just wanted him. Nothing from him, just him. He didn’t understand. What kind of desire was _that_? But it was what was offered and he would take it. It was more than the Arrangement. It was less than he wanted. It was what he was getting. 

They went home separately as was well and proper. There was no excuse that could let them do anything else. They continued on as if the Arrangement was exactly as it had been. They went to the opening of the exhibition with forty thousand other people. And yet they still found each other in all that mass of humans and felt like they were seen and not seen all at once. Crowley still had no idea what Aziraphale wanted. There were too many people here to focus on just him and actually _know_. 

London was so crowded much of the time he had trouble clearly sensing desires anymore. Or was swamped by them and dragged under like he was drowning. He had to figure things out the human way. He didn’t _know_. He didn’t understand anymore. He took what was offered and gave it back over and over. What was offered was often what was desired. He could mirror that back. He didn’t know what he wanted for himself exactly. He wanted something _more_. 

And eventually he had asked for more…. 

And now he was here. 

With nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully I will not get hit by another hurricane. Or health crises. Or whatever nonsense 2020 has up its sleeve.
> 
> Chapter 3 IS completed, and is off to beta this weekend
> 
> SOON. _eyes 2020 suspiciously_
> 
> Next chapter: The temptation of Edward Drinker Cope and Crowley vs their true nemesis... HORSES.


	3. Maladaptive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Drinker Cope arrives to oversee the dig. The temptation is as dangerous to Crowley.
> 
> Ash gets a mule which prompts some uncomfortable self reflection and thoughts on what the message in these fossils means... and who it's actually meant for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings:
> 
>   * Some gunfire is exchanged in the dark. No one is actually hit. 
>   * Horse breaking scene where horses are poorly treated. It gets better later.
>   * Some brief mention of disordered eating
>   * Body image issues/dissociation 
>   * Crowley's mental health is generally Poor but is not really aware of it and is not taking care of themself
> 


Cope was the first to arrive and would require Crowley’s full attention. Ash’s socializing in town in the evening meant no one questioned her comings and goings too much. She was seen just frequently enough to not arouse suspicion. But now Crowley couldn’t devote any time to maintaining that ruse so needed a plausible reason to be totally missing for a week. Miracles got Ash well ahead on mending and washing so no one would object to her taking a few days off. Ash claimed she was having a proper little cabin patched up nearby instead of that wretched tent she’d been presumed to be using. Once done she’d have more room to work on patching larger things like tents. The cabin would be restored entirely by miracle, but it gave her a good reason to be absent for the time needed to be able to turn her full attention to bringing out the worst in Cope. 

Crowley had met Cope several times on the East Coast during their travels between symposiums and drawing rooms. While the sunglasses and red hair were distinctive, the last time Cope had seen Crowley had been at a university function in an immaculate suit, surrounded by people of wealth and power. Here Anthony was dressed in the heavy denim and rough shirt of a working man, with his face half covered by a bandana to keep the dust out. The clean parts of him were where rivulets of sweat had temporarily washed the filth away. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong man. 

He had done enough to embed himself as Anthony here that most people didn’t even know he was called Crowley. Like most of the diggers he had only a first name. Learning his full name didn’t _matter_. It also emphasized the power imbalance as he was referred to by first name, as was most of the dig staff, while Professor Cope got his surname and honorific. He could stand right in front of him and not be seen. Cope didn’t even have a moment of deja vu. He didn’t matter enough to even warrant thinking about. It was necessary but he also _hated_ it. He didn’t want to be recognized. He couldn’t do his job then. He was just tired of never being himself anymore. 

Cope was even more himself than he had been on the East Coast. As the boss he was beholden to absolutely no one, including himself, to be on anything approaching good behavior. His short temper was on full display in the heat and dust. He had particular ways he wanted items handled and would get down in the dig and demand things were done right. He may have had a point in it, but also had a remarkably foul mouth. Sometimes the slowness of response from diggers was because they couldn’t quite reconcile the words that had come out of his mouth with his refined appearance. Which would often prompt more yelling as they were too slow. Eventually he would have things to his satisfaction again and then would leave the heavy labor to those like Anthony. 

When he decided to merely watch, Cope preferred to encourage them by reading Scripture aloud to improve their minds and morality. That it was interrupted by cussing and shouts about how they needed to be _careful,_ did little to improve anyone’s virtues. All this was doing was providing things for the Serpent to whisper back to him later. 

With only a few dozen people around, Anthony could both work and extend his occult senses so he could pursue that thread of _desire_ in Cope. He had sensed a feeling of entitlement and ownership in his earlier encounters, but here amidst an absolute horde of bones, more than Cope could dig up or comprehend in his lifetime, he still wanted MORE. A few whispers at the right time to tempt him and that could be fanned into a sense that this was his birthright, to name these beasts as if it was a new Garden. 

It was a temptation of knowledge all over again and yet, Crowley felt that in offering this it it was in some way MAKING that past. The false past was being unearthed and made truer with every corpse unearthed. Crowley was growing more uneasy by the day that these were not mere stones but were indeed some life unknown _until_ observed. That it was being spoken into existence by humanity. That the past they knew was being buried under this new past. 

No matter. He had the perfect bones to tempt Cope with to set this plan in motion. Anthony had spotted a large accumulation of bones a few weeks after arriving when he’d opted to fly between the camps under cover of darkness. It was inaccessible enough to deter nighttime exploration by the wildcatters. Making sure he was seen in his serpent form sunning himself by the spot was enough to keep regular diggers away. They didn’t want to chance a climb up where they’d have to put their hands where they couldn’t see them and find they’d put their hand down on a great black serpent. 

After a few days of arranging minor problems at the quarry, Cope was in a particularly foul mood and ready to suspect anyone and everyone of being a plant from Marsh. His eyes passed right over the demon in front of him and the misfortune that spilled off him and left him untouched. 

So Cope was eager for something to finally go right when Anthony said he’d found something _different_ from what they’d been digging up in the rest of the quarry. Just a little way away from the main dig. Would the Professor like to come look, if it wasn’t too much trouble, sir? 

Cope was naturally suspicious that this was some kind of trick. Both paleontologists had been known to seed rivals’ sites with fragments from other digs to lead them astray. As Anthony was suddenly examined closely, looking for signs of deception he briefly felt as if he was about to be _seen_ , as if he would suddenly be Crowley once more. 

Why had he been up there? He’d gone up to try and see things from a different vantage while the sun was at an angle. It would throw good shadows to see where things jutted out a bit further from the hillside and cast clear edges indicating they were bones rather than crumbling stone. It was true. It was how he’d spotted it as the first fingers of dawn made it over the cliff face. He just omitted the part about he was flying at the time. 

Cope didn’t seem inclined to risk the climb up there based on such a vague description so Anthony sketched out the size and shape of the bones with his hands, describing the arch of the vertebrae being a different shape and angle than most of what they’d dealt with. There was a brief little furrowing of Cope’s brow as he’d said a little too much in describing it. He’d been slightly too knowledgeable about the proper scientific terms after more than a year spent reading hundreds of monographs. But the excitement of a new acquisition smoothed away that brief slip in persona. 

It was a rough scramble up to the spot. It would be a nightmare to take the bones out of the hill. Dangerous. Even thinking you could get it out safely was its own form of hubris. But it was worth it to have Cope alone so he could turn his full senses on him without the distracting desires of others intruding. To have no one else there to steer conversation in new directions. He could say exactly the things Cope wanted to hear to make him more himself… just the worst version of that self. 

He could feel that overwhelming _desire_ bleeding through from the purely occult perceptions into his mortal ones so Cope almost seemed to radiate a palpable heat beside him. It was accompanied by a sour, fruity scent he associated with someone starving. There was a strange and twisted desire there to CONSUME this knowledge and make it his. To feast upon it and grow ever greater from that consumption of it. There was too the desire to simply have the bones in and of themselves, but it was not simply the _having_ of the object but the entire _idea_ of it. There was that sense of pride of ownership, of the knowledge being _his_. To make his mark on it and have it live forever in have given it a _Name_. 

He could feel that desire to bend creation to Cope’s own conception of how it worked. To have more and more and more knowledge to finally SEE creation laid bare and rearrange its skeleton to fit that view of the world being orderly and knowable. Of every piece of it part of a plan laid out by the Creator to have everything in it striving towards perfection. He could feel himself becoming lost in that desire of another calling out to him to MAKE it so, to see Creation spread out before him, to speed through great periods of time and see that Plan laid out before him with clarity. See that Plan taking shape as it all sped towards a beautiful Divine perfection. That desire called to him to act, to use his powers here. He could speed up this excavation so much, give him so much more information to work with. Unravel this mystery that had been written here in stone. To make it reveal the answer Cope already believed in. 

He could feel the yawning abyss of that mania trying to pull them both down. He loved knowledge, and questions, but there were limits even for him. This was gazing directly into some kind of message written for humanity… or directly for him. He couldn’t believe it was for him, that everything was preordained. If this was for him, then he had to believe that nothing he did _mattered_. That every hurt he had suffered was a purposeful bit of suffering inflicted with Divine purpose. And yet he hated, _hated_ , ineffability, the not knowing. So many questions, he had so many. They’d destroyed him. Made him what he was. Made him this… this _demon_ that was here to cast this man down for wanting to know, wanting it all to finally make _sense_. To see some reason to all the suffering and striving and ultimate annihilation of the species laid before them. 

He couldn’t destroy someone that way. He’d done that to humanity as a whole and was never sure it had been the right thing. He felt like it had been right, to let them have the spark, that desire to _know_. But this... this was such a clear bit of mania that he could see where that was truly _too much_. When he was already surrounded by more than could be dug up and described alone in a lifetime and he still wanted more for himself, that only _he_ could name, that was the true key to his destruction. 

A slight twist to his words and he pulled Cope back from the brink and sent him hurtling in a slightly different direction. It was still that same drive for more and more, but twisted to turn it outward instead of wholly inward. How would anyone know these were His beasts, his discoveries, if he didn’t tell others? To make this his he had to make sure he published first. Bury his rival beneath a torrent of knowledge. He needed more specimens to describe to do that. He needed everything here. The cost was irrelevant in money or time or health. Was he going to let his rival _Name_ anything else? 

Hadn’t Marsh _stolen_ from him before? Mocked his knowledge? Tainted that which he had named? That whisper of Marsh’s name ignited some new and terrible fire beneath Cope’s skin, even greater than his desire for _more_. They had been friends once. Colleagues. And then Marsh had _betrayed_ him, stolen that knowledge from him. He would _destroy_ him, take all that he had and make it his instead. He would steal his legacy and future by denying him any further ability to define the past. His temper was as hot as the noonday sun and he wanted nothing more than to obliterate his rival. To wipe him so thoroughly from the field that his very Name was written out of history. This was true WRATH. 

The mention of Marsh’s name earned Anthony a sharp look and nearly got him fired on the spot for possibly being a spy, to know this much. But with them alone like this he could bring his full powers to bear and twist around the memory. Cope would forget that Anthony had led him up here at all. Now it had been Cope’s idea to come up here and Anthony was merely there to carry tools and samples. 

He didn’t like damning people in general, but it was ultimately a _choice_ they were offered. Anthony had offered Cope death and destruction and he had chosen to embrace it. To lose himself in extinction. To focus on delivering the same to someone he hated. It might not be the same physical death that had come to the beast they stood before, but it was destruction of the name, of the self. It was that desire to twist his rival’s Name and turn it into a curse. 

He spent another hour on the cliff side with Cope trying to bring his focus back to the task of extracting this great prize from its deadly perch. Anthony had withdrawn back into himself enough to not feel that desire beating at him, urging him to do as Cope wanted but didn’t know how to ask. He no longer felt his own powers twisting inside him, trying to follow the path of Cope’s desire instead of his own. He focused on the physical, on the feel of the hammer in his hands, the burn of the alkaline rock dust in his nose and eyes and the feel of the strange bones beneath his fingers that felt somehow fundamentally different than the surrounding stone. He was here, now, as Anthony, and his boss was a demanding _asshole_. 

He demonstrated enough knowledge of the subject to get a minor promotion once things were smoothed over. Unfortunately this meant Cope wanted him to supervise getting this find out of the ground. It would give him plenty more opportunities to whisper directly to him and reinforce that wrath until it became self sustaining. And perhaps, perhaps he could turn aside some of that so it wouldn’t fall on others who just wanted to eat and so submitted to another’s desire. It would be a true miracle if no one fell from this precarious site. 

* * *

* * *

The reward for good work is always more work. Cope was keeping Anthony busy both physically and mentally with trying to dig out this new specimen. The days were almost at their longest and every bit of daylight would be used to its full advantage. Cope’s greatest desire now was _speed._ The faster he had these specimens dug out, the faster he could claim them, name them, and use them to bury his rival. 

But pushing the diggers faster resulted in more accidents. Anthony wasn’t even causing them. If anything he was mitigating the worst of them. He made sure some of their dynamite got wet, just to give himself a day off. If everyone else got one as well, then that was just making sure everyone could partake in a bit of Sloth. If it also gave them a day to recuperate and let strained muscles rest, blisters heal, and remove some mental fatigue, that was entirely incidental. He needed that time to make a new plan that involved less blasting and was less likely to collapse the whole site. 

Trying to haul pieces out faster encouraged them to jacket larger and larger pieces to be shipped back East on the train. Men and beasts strained under pieces that were getting heavier and heavier. Several of the camp horses ended up lame and kept ending up that way as they were put back to work too soon. Anthony couldn’t do much about that as even footsore horses wanted nothing to do with him. He was under strict orders to stay away from them since they frequently tried to throw their load due to his mere presence. It was attracting undo attention. It was easier to convince people horses were scared of the reflection off his dark glasses than to convince horses to like him. 

The lie meant he could stay away from them. But it also meant he really couldn’t look at their feet to see WHY they’d gone lame. Healing was a particularly tricky sort of miracle to pull off as it could sometimes make a situation worse if you didn’t understand what you were actually trying to fix. So the camp briefly ground to a halt as they had a backlog of fossils ready to be transported and too few healthy horses to do it with. 

Meanwhile at Marsh’s site, Ash’s newly acquired mule was growing healthier by the day. Samule hadn’t been in great condition when she bought him off a miner returning back East. The short periods of work carrying laundry were perfect for keeping him in shape while also letting him recover from overwork. The rest of the time he was loose in the little corral by her new cabin with a miraculously full water trough and all the grass he cared to eat. His hair was starting to grow back in where he’d been rubbed raw by the previous owner’s harness. As soon as he saw her coming, he came to the fence and rubbed against it to encourage her to scratch the itchy parts. 

That he was so eager for her company was a relief. Right now she needed him to help maintain her cover at Marsh’s site. She had to switch during the day much more frequently to maintain appearances. When Anthony was banished from the area they were loading crates onto Cope’s horses, Crowley would make a quick shift to slide between the stones as the great serpent and reappear in a small dead end canyon in the rockface by the cabin. Ash would walk out at the other end, trying to get her occult self folded away correctly. Sometimes she needed the time spent scratching Samule just to get her own skin to stop feeling so _wrong_. 

She always put his pack saddle and halter on by hand, but now could get him to hold still while yesterday’s miraculously-clean laundry just settled into position in packs. He’d shied the first few times at the sudden weight, but she’d now figured out how to form the miracle so the weight was distributed evenly on him like he’d just had a rider settle on his back. As well as he accepted that, she had no desire to find out if he’d actually let her ride him. 

Then all she had to do was lead him back to Marsh’s camp and be seen dropping off and picking up laundry. It let her keep access to everyone’s tents. No one questioned her walking in and out of them. She was _supposed_ to be there in their private areas. Only her absence would be noticed, not her presence. 

She’d reverse the process at the other end, miracling the stack of laundry and mending to a dry spot in the cabin. She’d take off Samule’s saddle and halter by hand and them inside as well. Once Samule was turned loose to go roll in the dirt, she’d head back to Cope’s site. A shift through time and space and two more changes to the size and shape of his body and he’d emerge at the other end, even more disoriented and with nothing to ground him. 

This just reinforced rumors about Anthony’s drinking habits and how they were growing worse. He endured several sermons from Cope about it, even as he swore that he’d had nothing but water while on break. This was often a lie as he’d forget to even do that. He probably should. But this barely even felt like his body, so things like putting food and water in it seemed like someone else’s problem. 

Ash wasn’t expecting to be approached by someone from Cope’s dig while she was leading Samule to Marsh’s. She saw Edgar coming up the fork in the trail that led toward town. He’d probably meant to catch her alone at her cabin. That left her feeling strangely uneasy about that. She felt as if she hadn’t had enough time to put this persona on and would be caught out somehow if she talked to him now. She clicked her tongue at Samule and he moved into a trot. She let the lead rope play out as if she had lost grip of it and now was having to run to keep up with a mule who had been startled by the man waving at them, rather than one that was doing exactly as told. 

“Hey! C’mon! All I want to do is talk!” He yelled after her. 

“Then keep up!” 

She wanted to make sure this conversation was overheard. She knew how quickly it could become her word against someone else’s. And she had no idea what Edgar wanted with her. 

Her sudden appearance at a trot attracted a great deal of attention. Usually she was just a background figure of no interest who could come and go as she pleased. Now, everyone would see her. She wasn’t sure if this was a mistake. 

Initially, one or two people spotted her and then nudged others to look over at what was going on. She pulled slightly on the lead rope and Samule came to a stop and then stood there as if nothing was bothering him at all. Edgar came huffing along behind her. 

“What was all that about?” He pulled his shirt up to wipe sweat off his face. 

“You spooked him.” _You spooked me_. 

“That’s too much animal for a little lady.” She was a lot of things, but _little_ was not one of them. 

“What do you want?” Her voice sounded wrong to her, too harsh, not quite fitting this face. 

“Want to talk about buying your mule off you.” Edgar didn’t seem to notice. He was familiar with Anthony but clearly saw nothing more than a family resemblance. Of course, horses’ dislike of Anthony was well known. Samule really was an excellent cover as he had now turned to bump his nose against her shoulder, seeking more scratching. 

“He’s not for sale. I need him for my job. _Here_.” She was close enough to camp now that the tone of her voice elicited some vague murmurs from watchers. 

“I know you don’t get on with Anthony, but this isn’t really for him...” 

“Of course not, a horse would buck him right off. But no, I bought him to help me do _my_ job. I’m not selling him to make _your_ job easier. Figure out how to work smarter, not harder.” Her voice was slipping, sounding too harsh and wild. There were too many people watching this, judging her performance. 

“That’s what the mule’s for! They’ll take the heat much better than the horses.” He looked over at some of the other fellows at camp that had taken notice of the exchange like they’d make her see reason. 

“Well then you should telegram someone about bringing more into town, because you aren’t getting mine, even if he is an enormous nuisance.” As the beast in question was currently snuffling at her hair. “Would you stop!?!” Samule’s ears flicked back at the scolding and she felt her face soften at that. 

“We could trade you a nice little pony we got.” She was familiar with the pony, and there was nothing _nice_ about him at all. “That’s plenty for what you’re doing and not too big for a lady.” 

She snorted scornfully at him, feeling like she now had a handle on the situation. “I think you underestimate how heavy laundry is. Once I start piling canvas on him, no, a pony will _not_ do.” That pony would also immediately try to bite her. It had actively chased Anthony at one point, though he was not the only person that it hated with a passion. 

“We could throw in a little cash to go with it to.” Very little cash likely and likely less than agreed upon unless there wasn’t another man around to make sure she was paid in full. She knew how that game was played. 

“No. He’s not for sale while Anthony is still working for Cope. I won’t have him terrifying the poor beast.” Said beast was currently trying to steal her sunglasses. She shoved his nose away, wondering if he would actually be terrified of Anthony or not. He certainly put the lie to the sunglasses being what scared off horses. 

Edgar looked at the attention the conversation was getting and made a sweeping arm motion. “Fine. Suit yourself. Price isn’t going to get any better.” 

* * *

* * *

That immediately proved to be a lie as neither side actually seemed to be having any luck getting a solid contract to bring in more animals from out of town. The telegraph speed things up, but there were still many moving pieces involved in that sort of contract. Neither camp wanted to wait with fossils piling up at the sites and looking increasingly tempting to steal. Though how either side would steal them when they were so short on horsepower, that was anyone’s guess. It was pure paranoia and Anthony was quite willing to encourage that irrational fear. 

As prices climbed, more people were tempted to sell. Ash was spending little time in town in the evening now because she _needed_ to sleep, but when it came up, she recommended against selling. Unless you can afford to do without that horse or can arrange to replace it via a delivery, don’t sell. Don’t let the promise of short term gain cause you long term harm. 

The rapid price rise led to the inevitable attempt at horse rustling. Well, mule rustling. She’d felt that desire for riches slowly rising in town and knew it would eventually spill over to that. She’s caused it, so she could put a stop to it before it hurt someone that truly couldn’t afford to lose an animal. Just a few whispers in the right places reminded the most aggressive that there was the widow with a draft mule that lived outside town and away from watchful eyes. It didn’t take long before someone was creeping around outside her cabin at night. 

She wished he hadn’t woken her up. That was _rude_. Please get with your sinning at a reasonable hour for a demon to get a good night’s sleep. She heard a faint curse from outside. Oh she’d give him a curse alright… 

She pulled the cabin door open silently and looked out into the darkness where she could see one of the ne'er do wells she’d expected to come calling. She relaxed her hold on her form and let some of the snake bleed through so she could draw in breath and catch the scent of him. Sweat, hard liquor, and _avarice_. She picked up a stone she’d put on the porch for exactly this purpose. She focused on the exact miracle she wanted and got ready to snap with the one hand and threw the stone with the other. It hit right by her visitor’s feet and there was a loud echo of a rifle shot as the stone kicked up dirt. Samule reared and then bolted past the man, knocking him down. 

“I didn’t miss. That’s the only warning you’ll get. Horse rustling’s a hanging offense. I suggest you be gone on the next train.” She grabbed two more stones and shoved them in her pockets before stepping down off the tiny porch. She silently moved across the ground. With her glasses off in the darkness, she could see quite clearly. She slid into a little cut in the rocks where she usually emerged when travelling from Cope’s camp. 

Her visitor had frozen and then dropped to the ground at having been shot at. He quickly rolled under the edge of the fence to take advantage of what little cover the fence post offered. She could hear the sound of metal on leather. He was smart enough to have come armed, stupid enough to have come alone. 

He shot blind at the cabin, guessing wildly where she was. She could see in the brief muzzle flash that he had his eyes closed to not lose what little night vision he had. It cut out most of hers but a deliberate blink and a moment of _focus_ that she wasn’t bound to how human corporation worked and it was restored. 

She could see him bolting to better cover behind a rock now. He got there and held his breath, listening for sounds that he’d hit her. He stayed crouched that way for a good two minutes as Samule pranced and blew nearby. He cautiously looked out from behind rock outcropping towards the little cabin. He edged his way out silently to creep towards it at a crouch. She could see his confused movements as he got to the porch and found nothing. 

A slight flicker of her tongue and she could pick up clearly on that mess of desire. The desire to not get caught was fading. He thought there would be no punishment. And now was back at his original purpose. No regret, no remorse, just that focus on the riches he’d gain from the robbery and attempted murder. He turned back towards the little corral, putting the gun back in its holster so he could focus on catching Samule. 

“No one will misssss you.” She let the hiss bleed through and saw him freeze again. He turned towards where she was. She saw his hand moving towards his gun and she snapped, using far too much power on such a minor problem. 

She strolled over to where he was frozen and pulled the gun from his holster, tossing it onto her porch. She came around to stand directly in front of him, just out of arm’s reach and let time flow again. 

“You’re going to _Hell._ ” Her sudden appearance and words were enough to have the desired effect. He bolted down the trail, falling and scrambling back up. She could smell the blood on him from his fall. The sound of great scales sliding over the rock followed him down the hogback. 

He was gone on the next train.

* * *

* * *

Marsh would be a more difficult adversary when he arrived in a month. He had different flaws, ones that were more difficult to exploit. He did not burn in the same way as Cope. There was that rivalry there, but he was more measured in his attacks. Methodical. He gathered from more sources and drew his power from many people and places. Crowley had seen him in his offices at the partially built museum named after his uncle, with some of the beasts mounted and displayed by the many people who worked under him so he could call them _his_ fossils. 

Still, there was a method to it, in seeing how the pieces fit together, in organizing, that was a skill in and of itself. When Crowley last saw him, he had been showing off the collection of horse fossils to a group of potential funders, making the case that there were clear links between previous extinct species and current ones, with strange stops in between that tied each beast to a specific time and place. There was not that overarching theme of inevitable progress towards a preordained perfection. There were just changes to fit new circumstances. 

His progression of horse fossils illustrated how some tiny soft-footed creature had become over many, many years the horse that they saw today. Which really, as soon as you KNEW a horse, you knew this hit or miss development full of side branches that went nowhere made slightly more sense than it being designed with this end goal in mind. If this was the Plan, God had a weird sense of perfection. How could an animal designed to eat grass get sick on grass so annoyingly consistently? Obviously humans had meddled a bit with it with the domesticating… or had they? There _were_ wild horses. Crowley had seen them. But also domesticated horses. And now they were somewhere where domesticated horses had gone wild… again? They could no longer trust their memories on if horses had started wild and been domesticated or if this was some kind of evidence of separate, parallel creation. Horses had never liked them and they hadn’t paid enough attention to actually _know_. They were about to get a chance to see them close up. 

With no firm contact to bring in more animals, some of the men at Cope’s camp had gone out to try and catch wild horses. They’d come back with them tied to their saddle by long ropes. The horses were exhausted and barely moving, having fought to stay free until they couldn’t resist anymore. 

The men then tied the horses between two fences to drop saddles on them. They’d kicked and bucked and tried to break free, but eventually they stood there shaking, seemingly resigned until the same men threw a weight in the saddle to try and break them to packs as quickly as possible. Then it was another round of them bucking and trying to spin away from something they couldn’t escape. Eventually they just stood there on trembling legs, coats matted with sweat. There was something about them then that spoke of defeat. Of having been forced to change, to become something they never wanted but were made to be. Crowley felt for them deep in bones that no human had, in ones that he himself had been forced to accept as part of their new nature. 

Come evening the horses found themselves without a hobble on and no fence in their way. The overwhelming scent of snake made even the ones that had given up run one more time. Let them be what they were now. They weren’t wild in the same way as the wild horses Crowley’d seen in the past. They were something new mimicking something old. 

Everyone knew how much horses hated Anthony and how they’d whinny in distress at his mere presence. It couldn’t have been him that turned them loose, so the escape provided at least a week's worth of furious accusations being flung around of having a saboteur in their midst. Everyone except the culprit was a suspect. 

Meanwhile, his other self had no such problem with Samule. Crowley had always assumed that since horses and donkeys hated them, _of course_ mules did. But Samule was proving them wrong, and they had their suspicions as to why. 

Samule was a dead-end. As lovely a creature as he was there’d be no more of him. He’d been _made_ by humans. Crowley didn’t understand how it worked. This strange bit of detoured creation that could not replicate itself. Where was the boundary between species if humans could take two similar things and create something entirely new? Given enough time could they warp horses and donkeys enough to put them together and make a replicating mule, something that was fundamentally different than its parents? Something that God had never written into her Plan? Or had they gifted humans the ability to Create as well? 

It was hard telling apart similar species, especially when reduced to bones. The paleontologists were fighting over that constantly. Were these creatures actually different or just different sexes? Different ages? It was even harder with just partial pieces when you didn’t know what the finished beast looked like. Until you found all the pieces together, sometimes you could end up with the wrong head on a body. They were so eager to be the first to name something so often made this kind of error. Each piece of bone was being named a different species when underneath they were fundamentally the same. Maybe that was part of the joke. A lesson on how easily you could be led astray by a difference in appearance when they were fundamentally the same. 

And yet… horses mistrusted Crowley. Ponies tried to bite them. Donkeys _hated_ them. Yet, Samule sought out Ash’s affections. Reduced to bone, they would look almost the same. Crowley could, in theory, communicate with them all… if they ever let him in. They weren’t considered beasts of Hell, so Crowley didn’t have the pre-established connection with them through Hell’s domain that would let them just try and command them. They had to be let in to establish that rapport. Without that connection, they couldn’t talk their way out of an animal’s suspicion. Neither could Aziraphale for that matter as they were not beasts of Heaven either. Wild beasts were much easier than horses. Domesticated animals were difficult for them both as they were fundamentally beasts made for humans. Or by humans. Crowley wasn’t sure anymore, or if there was any difference. In either case, they had to interact with them in fundamentally human ways. 

Maybe that was it. That being made entirely _by_ humans, never having been made as part of that original creation, Samule didn’t understand what Ash was. Samule would shove his nose into the back of her neck and wuffle along the hairs there until she turned around to scold him. And pet him. It’s all he wanted most of the time. She had hands that could be scratching him in places he couldn’t reach. They were simple desires. 

He came to his little corral one evening as Anthony to see if the mule treated him differently. Samule tried to steal his glasses. He could sense his desire for them but still didn’t understand why he wanted them. But he stroked his nose and could feel that willingness to be communicated with in some way. It didn’t seem to matter how different he looked this way. How different he felt in this other skin. 

Would Samule fear him as a snake? He’d carefully stepped over them on trails many times. Maybe he wouldn’t. What about as a demon? Did he have any reference for that? Could he even communicate that to him? Clearly other equines _knew._ Well they knew he wasn’t _human_. They’d never cared for Aziraphale either, but weren’t inclined to throw him as soon as he tried to ride them. The angel wasn’t both inhuman _and_ a snake. Why was the mule different? Had being made by humans freed him from knowing his place in the Divine Plan? Did being made by humans grant him some echo of their ability to choose? Did he know what path he was choosing when he shoved his head into their hands, demanding love? They were afraid to ask. What if Samule hated them once he knew who Crowley actually was? It was ridiculous. He was an _animal_. An animal’s opinion of them shouldn’t matter… and yet it very much did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's mental health gets worse before it gets better. Self care requires a firm sense of Self and that is short supply.
> 
> He does receive some comfort!


	4. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony struggles with his promotion and ability to keep things on track. He's eventually pushed to the breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **specific warnings for this chapter:**
> 
>   * Extinction is discussed.
>   * A fossil animal is implied have had a bad tooth that was probably very painful
>   * Crowley has trauma over the Flood 
>   * Crowley has a panic attack
>   * Crowley experiences some dissociation
>   * Crowley ‘s mental health is generally poor, but _he asks for and receives help_
>   * Is Crowley getting gaslit by God? possibly.
> 


Anthony had been promoted and sort of knew what he was doing but more importantly knew how much he _didn't_ know. Once they started excavating that first skeleton, it had turned out it was actually many skeletons tangled together. He’d done some meddling with the London Underground’s construction so was passingly familiar with some of the stabilization techniques used there, but that presumed there was something to brace against. An open rock face that was out in the wind and rain was a different matter entirely. Miracles could only take him so far as other people were also modifying the dig around him, sometimes undoing bits of that very miracle. There was also the problem that he didn't quite understand what he needed to do, making the miracle fragile and prone to unraveling. But he was learning as he went along, adapting, getting better at visualizing what he needed to do. 

First up had been covering some of it with a canvas roof to cut down on the likelihood of a washout from sudden downpours common this time of year. Then he had attached the cover a different way so the wind couldn’t just tear the whole structure off the cliff. After that, he'd had guide ropes hammered in to keep people from sliding off the steep trail up. 

Cope seemed determined to stay and supervise what was coming out as long as he could, though it became obvious that he was also staying to try and lure Marsh’s better staff away. Marsh’s perpetual late payroll was working against him and some staff that might otherwise have been loyal left simply because they needed the money. 

Many of the ones that had switched camps were familiar to him as Ash but this was their first time seeing Ash’s notorious "brother". There was the occasional hard stare and furrowed brows as some people seemed aware of _something_ going on. They looked so _similar_. Their cadence of their accent was so _familiar_. A few accidentally called him Ms. Ash, but he always had to think a little about aliases being _him_ , so he didn't get caught out by accidentally responding to that other name. 

He caught Zeke looking at him frequently and then rapidly averting eyes when he sensed he was being looked back at. He'd always been a little jumpy around Ash, but this seemed different, like he was _afraid_ of Anthony catching him looking. He didn't think Zeke had jumped ship to engage in sabotage, but if that was the case, he wanted to know that. A brief opening up of occult senses to read what he desired and he had an answer. 

There was a contradictory desire to be seen and not be seen all at the same time. To find someone like them, to be seen by them, but also terrified they were _wrong._ That they were alone and any attempt to find some connection with someone else would ultimately end in disaster. Anthony might not be able to relate to that, but _Crowley_ certainly could. 

They had the opportunity to take Zeke aside to discuss how to work on making a cut in the stone under a treacherous overhang. It was a fossil that Crowley truly did want to see uncovered as it seemed like it was animals that had been fossilized together. They’d been interacting with each other at the time of their death. Whether that had been something that happened naturally or was a staged scene, they still didn't know. But they needed to _see._

“You’ve got a nice steady hand for this. You can get yourself wedged in there to make the cuts without us using dynamite. “ As Crowley spoke they let their voice soften, and there was just a slight shift in stance. 

“I’m not sure about how to cut it without it falling on me.” Zeke shifted uneasily, sensing something afoot. 

“We’ll put in a brace. Do you think you can still fit in there then or is it going to be too tight? You’re my smallest guy.” Zeke straightened up at that to make himself taller. 

“I can fit. I can do it.” He tipped his chin up, like he was ready for a fight. 

Crowley laid their hand on his shoulder and he startled at that. “I want to make sure you’re safe. Don’t tell me you can if it's going to be too much.” 

Zeke looked over at him and there was that brief widening of eyes and they felt they were briefly being _seen_. Not all of them, there was only one person they wanted to see that, might ever trust to see all of that, some day. But here and now some little piece of them was being seen by someone that NEEDED to see that. 

“What if I can’t… fit?” There was a brittle edge to his voice as he was asking an entirely different question. 

“We’ll just do things differently, that’s all. Not gonna let you get fired over it.” 

“Oh” His voice was so soft, all the tension draining away for a moment. “I… don’t know what I was expecting.” 

“Ash can have a bit of a sharp tongue when it comes to me. I'm not…" They took a deep breath. It was hard to say the truth. Even to someone that needed to hear it. Especially themself. "I'm not all bad. It's just safer to have something already out there that’s not true than have people snooping about and finding out something you don’t want them to know.” 

There was that careful sideways look at them, looking at the shape of their stubble-free jaw, gliding along the smooth line of their neck, and taking in Crowley’s narrow frame. Zeke scrubbed his arm against his eyes as he looked away. 

“It's really dusty here. It’s worse than at the other site.” 

“It is. Pitch your tent up by mine instead of with the main camp and there’s less dust. Might even be able to get some of it out of your underclothes for once.” They'd have to be even more careful about coming and going at night now, but they felt like it was worth the trouble. 

“That’d be a miracle. Think I’m rubbed raw in places.” 

“Might know someone that does laundry.” 

“I do miss that from the other site.” 

“Leave what you need done in my tent. Nobody will look in there.” 

“Really?” There was a brief bit of hope, then the suspicion that this was some kind of trap was back. 

“I don’t ask, you don’t ask. Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I…” there was a quick glance over at them. Crowley gave a slight little nod at a question not asked aloud. 

“Just be aware Anthony has a _reputation_. Be sneaky about coming and going." They gave him a firm look, but kept his face purposely soft and voice gentle. "And don't stay. Just trade laundry. That's all. I _mean_ that. That’s the lie. That reputation. Not what I’m offering." 

“Right." Some bit of tension went out of Zeke. He squared up his shoulders, putting back on his mask. "I really do think I can do it, if we can brace it right. I’m not just saying.” He sounded confident now. He believed it was true. 

“Alright, I’ll see if I can get a consult to make that work.” Now he just needed to believe it too. 

* * *

* * *

Crowley knew exactly who to consult, but the problem was in getting him to the right camp. Arthur Lakes had been the one to initially find the whole formation and send samples out to both Marsh and Cope, inadvertently fueling their feud. He was now fully aware of it, so would be immediately suspicious of any contact from Cope’s dig as a plot by Cope to get him to switch loyalties. Crowley knew Cope had been sending him notes to try and lure him back over to his side and was considering going to visit him in person, even if it would escalate the feud with Marsh. 

Currently Lakes was working mostly for Marsh with some wildcatting on the side. The side project had nothing to do with fossils. He was fascinated by them, but he was really more interested in mineral deposits. That tiny fossils were sometimes indicators of certain types of other deposits had lured him in but then the sheer size of the beasts here had called to his curiosity. 

Crowley had not specifically tried to tempt him at Marsh’s quarry as Lakes was mostly focused on doing his job. He didn’t burn with the same madness that the other two did. He had his own faults and vices, just like anyone else but he didn’t seek to spread them far and wide. Mostly he clashed with the foreman there about how to do things. And he was forever butting heads with him over money. Marsh was always late with money, but quick to send a telegram back promising payment when harassed about it. It was a subtle annoyance that he always had to be reminded of his obligations while simultaneously demanding loyalty. The money often ran out before the payroll did. Attempts to hand Ash IOUs had met with a reminder that she had their trousers and she did NOT have to give them back until she was paid. She didn’t need that money, but demanding she be paid on time ensured Marsh was telegrammed again to send the rest of payroll _today,_ so none of the diggers were left waiting. 

Lakes was always pleasant to Ash. Lately he had taken to accompanying her and Samule along the path back to her little cabin in the evening after she’d picked up laundry. It had taken a little while for rumors to make their way around town about what had sent her night visitor fleeing. Several people had seen the great snake on the hogback, so the thief’s babbling about scales and eyes had naturally attached itself to the snake. It had just now grown to monstrous size in stories. It amused her that Lakes thought he could protect her _from_ her. 

Lakes was an expat from England and he still wanted to hear some of what was going on. It had been quite awhile, but there was that spark of connection in hearing about a distant home from someone met far, far from it. It made the world seem small and intimate to find someone who knew the culture of a place you only remembered and faded more and more with time. To have someone outside yourself verify a shared memory of a place or thing or feeling. Crowley desperately missed that and with their doubts about history itself, more and more longed for someone to share memories with. 

They talked about very small, seeming inconsequential things. Lakes actually missed the weather. Ash wasn’t quite as fond of England's damp and cold periods but with the blistering heat here, a talk about the mist and rain of their home country brought some comfort and a touch of longing. She had lived there a long time, but it had never quite felt like home until now, when it was gone. 

They also talked about plants a lot. Lakes remembered the shape and smell of many things from his youth that he’d never learned the name of. He showed her a small plant fossil that reminded him of a specific type of fern he remembered growing close along a holloway but never knew the name of. He remembered being sent to fetch it for use as a dewormer. 

The shape of the leaf was familiar, but she could only narrow it down to some kind of Dryopteris male fern, not the specific kind. There were so many species and so many hybrids, it was hard to make a distinction between where one species ended and another began, especially one being described only from hazy memories. 

The day after she spoke with Zeke, she made sure to catch him while swapping laundry. She steered the conversation towards Anthony having concerns about the safety at the new site and his inexperience with this type of construction. The supervisor was only a little better, but speed seemed to be trumping safety. He was worried the diggers might be the ones to pay the price. He was worried that the whole thing might collapse no matter what he did. That was _mostly_ the truth. Anthony couldn’t hold it together with miracles against every eventuality. Some of it had to be _real._

“I didn’t think you were talking to your brother.” 

“We agree on some things. We don’t like seeing people hurt if they don’t have to be” 

“I think this is the first positive thing you’ve said of Anthony, when you mention him at all. If he’s concerned enough to reach out to you, he can’t be all bad.” She wanted to protest, make that familiar argument, but this wasn’t her familiar partner. She didn’t know how else to do this back and forth. _She_ had been the one playing _his_ role this whole time. The protest died on her tongue and Lakes looked concerned by her facial expression. 

“I’m his harshest critic.” It was true. 

“Fighting with him doesn’t seem to be doing you any good. I haven’t met the man yet, but if he’s concerned enough to reconcile with you enough to convey his worry, I’ll respond to Cope’s last letter to me. Things must be rather bad.” 

“Thank you. He… he is worried.” Also true. He’d caused the problem by tempting Cope but the brunt of the consequences were being born by those who had little choice in the matter. Causing a bit of chaos and aggravation where people could choose to be bad was what he preferred to do. Pushing people to where they could fall because of what he’d done without them having a choice in the matter… He was a demon. It was what he was _supposed_ to do. 

* * *

* * *

Cope was elated that Lakes was finally willing to respond back to him. He'd have a chance to try and convince him to leave Marsh. Cope’s current site supervisor was someone he’d lured away from Marsh last year with more reliable pay, but he didn’t have the depth of knowledge that Lakes did. Diggers were cheap and easy to come by, peers were a much rarer commodity. 

But even as Cope wanted to recruit him, there was still that suspicion there that he might only have agreed to speak to him because he was a spy. So there was an exhausting push and pull of trying to court him while simultaneously not wanting him to see too much as he might then use it for nefarious purposes. Cope went to meet him out on the road in the morning, to finally see him in person and determine if he was double crossing him. The meeting went well enough that by mid-morning, Lakes was being shown around the site. Crowley had known he was coming and yet also wasn’t quite prepared to come face to face with him on one of the rickety walkways held up only by miracles. 

There was that brief moment of recognition in Lakes’ eyes, those dark glasses and red hair were familiar and the name was on his tongue… Anthony pulled himself together and went for bravado. 

“Who’s this now? What are you doing up here? I don’t want anyone up here that doesn’t know what they’re doing.” And then the sudden shift in tone as he pulled himself in smaller as he saw Cope behind Lakes. “Oh Professor, is he with you? My apologies.” 

“No, no, you’re doing your job. Don’t want anyone up here without my say so.” 

“No, Professor. Did you have something else you wanted me to do?” 

Lakes was clearly a little confused by this performance. He knew who he _should_ be seeing and this wasn’t quite matching up with what he knew. Anthony hid his sins well in front of Cope. 

“Yes, I’d like to see where you are with this new site.” 

“Come up a bit higher and mind the edge. One of the walkways fell out of the hillside Tuesday overnight in that sudden squall. We haven’t got a replacement in yet. Keep your hand on the guide rope.” 

A quick scramble up and they could see the tilted strata studded with bones. It was such a confusing tangle of corpses that cutting it apart was proving a challenge. Work had been going slowly during the day as rock was chipped away to try and find a spot where they could break pieces free without cutting directly through a bone. It seemed to go so slowly and yet often in the morning, it seemed they had gotten much further the previous day than anyone had thought. 

Cope wanted to see at least one of the larger skeletons safely crated and sent back East with him before he left, so he had already overstayed his original planned visit. Now it was obvious why as he stepped forward to run hands over the orbit of the eye on one the partially exposed skulls. 

“Marsh doesn’t have anything like this.” He stroked along the head like it was a favorite dog. 

“No, no he doesn’t.” Lakes was looking over the exposed mass, clearly seeing something there. Anthony was holding his occult senses in close since he didn’t need Cope’s overwhelming desire beating at his senses, urging him to madness. Which meant he had no idea why, when confronted with this great mass of bones, Lakes looked at HIM. 

He again had that uncomfortable sense of being seen while simultaneously not knowing what was being seen. He drew his bandana up and used it to wipe off his sweaty face and grime covered glasses. He felt Lakes refocus on the great mass of fossils and the two scientists started up a steady back and forth as Lakes asked questions and Cope confidently came back with answers. 

Anthony understood roughly half the conversation, which surprised him. He’d done an enormous amount of reading but it had seemed so much clearer in the published work. There things were much more certain, settled. This was messy. The two went back and forth arguing about the specifics of each tiny detail and the surrounding strata. The disagreements he’d been exposed to previously were either long drawn out affairs in formal scientific papers or quick salvos at salons where rhetoric was more important than content. Here it was an argument between two people with equal access and knowledge about the raw evidence laid out before them. This was not about style or interpretation. This was an argument about their perception of reality. 

This was what he’d wanted. Thought he’d wanted. And yet he found himself totally unprepared. He’d been looking at these bones for a fortnight, but not really seeing them and now, now he _saw_. 

Cope was focused on the abundance and variety of bones and how quickly they could be extracted and named and the evidence held in them used to cudgel his rival. He emphasized all the little differences that said this was different than the similar specimen Marsh had already named from much more fragmentary pieces. This deserved a new name, a proper name to match such a complete type specimen. 

Lakes was more focused on the entire formation as a whole and what the context told them. There was a back and forth between the two on the exact dating and whether Marsh’s date of a similar specimen had been off or if these were from an entirely different time period. Cope was torn in wanting to attack his rival’s skill and also wanting that distance of time to add more evidence to it being a different species entirely. They came to no specific conclusion other than Lakes being firm with his dating of this particular specimen. It was an unbelievable date. It couldn’t be true and yet Lakes seemed so sure… 

“How are you so sure on the date?” He’d spoken without realizing he was going to, and attracted the attention of both of them. Cope seemed irritated at the interruption, Lakes mostly seemed surprised. 

“This layer of rock right here.” He ran a hand across a narrow band of yellow stone among the darker reddish bands studded with cobbles. “It’s isolated here without as much context because of the upthrust that broke this section free. The rest of the cliff has weathered away so the later layers are missing. But there’s a good site further south where you can still see all the layers in the original sequence. This is the same layer of stone, so matches that sequence. It’s like matching up torn pages of a book.” 

“So I should leave that attached to the main block? So we know how old it is?” Anthony was looking between Lakes and Cope, unsure who he was actually asking. 

“Or do an onsite drawing.” Lakes was the one who answered. “That’s what I’ve been doing. But if it's being removed in such a big piece already, both would be good. For later study.” 

Cope apparently took that as an opening to try and persuade Lakes to switch camps. “See, Marsh has nothing so interesting to deal with right now. This would be a much better use of your time. And you know how he is with credit…” Lakes made a noncommittal noise, not wanting to restart that argument. Lakes had sent some of his initial bone finds to both of them. Marsh had been the first one to publish, putting the first claim on the area before he even set foot there. 

“I don’t care so much about that, I just want to _know_.” Lakes was back to looking at the bones, clearly tempted. Anthony was glad he hadn’t actually tried to sense desire earlier or he’d have been doomed. Curiosity was his truest weakness. 

The two went back to arguing again, Cope peppering Lakes with questions and drawing him further into his orbit. Why were there so many together? Some sort of large scale slaughter or merely an accumulation of bones in a wash in a river? They argued back and forth on the sediment in the whole piece looking similar and the way things were entwined that it seemed likely they’d all been interred at the same time. Possibly a flood event. Anthony shuddered at the suggestion. 

Lakes ran a hand along the bones, and then paused, licked a finger and rubbed it along one of the smaller skulls. He stroked along it and Anthony could see him curl his fingers in to run the nail along the bone. He pressed his face close to it, getting his eyes within an inch of the braincase. 

Cope paused in his questioning and came close to see what Lakes was so focused on. “Here. This isn’t a break. It’s on both of these smaller skulls in the same place. These are both juveniles.” 

Cope backed up slightly to take in the whole tangle of bones, all so similar but in a range of sizes. “Not an accumulation of several species at all, a full cross section of different ages, different genders. All killed at once.” 

Anthony looked at the exposed bones and the way one of the smaller sets of bones was entangled with another, the claws against the shoulder and the necks twisted around each other. No battle here, just them entangled with each in a last embrace. _Never again._

Anthony felt unsteady and staggered slightly. He could hear the skree sliding beneath his feet and he felt weightless for a moment before his arm was seized. A second hand grabbed at his shirt. 

“You almost went clean over the side!” 

“M’fine.” He most certainly was not. 

“Give him some water.” 

“No, NO water!” He pushed at the two who’d dragged him into the shadow of the cut rock. The bones loomed much closer now and they seemed caught in some past agony, those empty eyes looking at him accusingly. _Never again._ There had been no rainbow then. No one had seen that slaughter except the one that controlled it. But now he saw so clearly. 

“He’s definitely got heat stroke.” 

“No place to be out in the noon sun.” 

A wet cloth was pressed to his throat and wrists. He tried to pull away and got cursed at soundly by Cope. “Stop that! You damn near fell off the cliff!” 

“M’fine, m’fine. Just dizzy. Need to get a railing in.” 

“Yes, that does need seeing too, but why are you dizzy?” Cope looked torn between concern and fury that he’d probably been drinking on the job. 

“Just got busy. Forgot to eat. M’fine.” He couldn’t remember when he last ingested _anything_. Being glared at by two humans that clearly didn’t believe he was fine was too much. “It is hot. I’ll take water. Just slow.” 

“Loosen up what you have on and just stay in the shade until you’re steady on your feet.” Anthony slid his boots off and started to unbutton his shirt. The bloom of scales across his chest made him redo one button to cover them. His hands looked odd to him, insubstantial somehow even though he could feel the fabric under his fingertips. He became aware suddenly of how confined his wings felt and of a deep ache in places that had long since ceased to hurt, but the memory was always there of his body being warped to fit imperfectly in this frail body. He put his hand to his face, frantically making sure his glasses were still on. 

Lakes cleared his throat to get his attention. He handed over the flask of water he’d used to wet his handkerchief. “Drink the whole thing before we go back down.” 

“I know how to take care of myself.” _Did he though?_ He made a face and took a sip of water. 

Lakes and Cope were both giving him a look like he most certainly could not. Cope looked over at the edge of the walkway. “Perhaps we have been moving a bit too fast. If we hadn’t seen you stagger…” He kicked at a piece of skree that rattled down the side and made faint noises of impact as it bounced down the hillside. 

“I don’t know how to keep this anchored as more pieces are built on. I don’t know how we’ll get this down.” He didn’t even know if he could keep _himself_ anchored. Water maybe. He took another swig and could feel that sense of otherness receding, but now he was absolutely _parched_. 

“Slow down, son.” Lakes made to take the flask back from him. Anthony clutched it to his chest, but nodded vigorously in understanding. 

“I do want this extracted, but… this may be too dangerous.” Cope seemed focused on other problems entirely. He stared off the side of the rock face into space for a moment, looking troubled. Then he looked back towards the fossils and the doubt drained from his face. Clearly the danger was worth it, when it was _other_ people who would take the risk. 

“I can do this.” Anthony looked up at them. “I just… I just need help.” He knew he wouldn’t get it. That’s how this worked. Never ask for more than was freely given. 

“I think I could stay a few days and consult on scaffolding and a proper crane system. I’m _not_ staying.” Lakes was looking at Cope. 

Cope was trying to rein in his eagerness. He could take what was offered for now and try for more later. “You’ll be compensated for your time, of course. And you can stay here instead of travelling back and forth.” 

“Probably best to not be seen.” 

* * *

* * *

Crowley’d originally seen these fossils on the wing and so it was on the wing that they returned to them late that same night, past even when the wildcatters would be out and about. Word of Anthony’s almost-fall had gotten around rapidly. No one would dare come up here until new safety measures were installed, but they didn’t want any chance of being seen coming from above. They might not be able to turn eyes away from them quickly if they were affected as strongly as they had been earlier. 

They landed lightly but there was still the clatter of a stone going over the edge. The safest option would be folding their wings away, in case they were seen. But if they fell again there would be no one to catch them this time. They were almost more rattled by having been saved than if they’d gone over the side. 

They tucked their glasses away so they could see clearly in the starlight. Everything had that flat, sharpness of nighttime to it, all harsh edges like holes in reality. If they were going to truly look at these bones, they needed more. They relaxed their hold on this form and they could feel scales bloom across their skin, their tongue fork, and the opening up of their occult senses. 

Here with no one here but night birds and insects, there was nothing to sense complicated desires from. They could not see quite like they once had. That had been taken in the Fall but they could _remember_ it. They let more of that occult form come to the surface of corporation and see in ways meant for deep darkness where only distant stars cast light. They weren’t so keen as they once were, filtered through these snake eyes, but still it was far beyond human abilities. 

The bones came into sharp focus, letting them see slight little variations in the stone from refractivity they wouldn’t be able to see in daylight with their normal eyes. There again he saw the two tangled together as if in a final embrace. They reached out and ran a hand over the bone, staring at the empty sockets. Trying to meet that gaze across time. Was there any gaze to meet? 

If this was truly just a story, what was it meant to tell people? Was this graveyard of bones meant as just one more reminder that destruction was always an option? How big a lie was that rainbow? 

A pretty big one. There had been plenty of disasters since then. Volcanoes, landslides, hail, tornadoes, waterspouts, locusts, great plagues, and even floods. No floods quite so catastrophic. Perhaps God was keeping Her promise that it would never again be _as_ bad. But still… It was _bad_. 

Why create something just to destroy it? What did that act of creation mean then? They’d made stars once. Built into them their eventual destruction even. The stars had no choice in the matter, but they also had no knowledge of themselves as any kind of individual. They didn’t _hurt._ They would “die” eventually, but from them would come other pieces of the universe. Life did the same on a much shorter timescale. But it was aware of its own end and struggled against it. But everything here on Earth, except Crowley, lived and died and was all a part of the great chain of life becoming more life… unless it was diverted away like this. A warning. Pulled out of time and isolated from it. Alone. 

They stroked their hand over the skull, feeling the difference in the stone beneath their hand. Tiny imperfections, bits of randomness where the process had gone awry. They brought their other hand up to lay it on the smaller skull, closing their eyes and just feeling. Not reading the message, feeling it. There was the little gap in the skull bones that Lakes had remarked on, where the bones had not entirely fused together yet. Here in the larger one, there was a much smaller discontinuity. There had still been room to grow. As large as this beast was, it still wasn’t an adult. 

They moved their hands down lower to run them over the teeth and feel the difference there. The larger one’s teeth were bigger but a little smoother along the edges from wear. They found one in the jaw that was just barely pushing up out of the bone, still fresh and sharp. The younger one’s teeth were almost sharp enough to draw blood if they pressed against it the wrong way. They ran their hands over it, feeling along the line of teeth in the larger one and found a sudden sharp edge. A tooth was broken off and the jaw bone was warped where it had tried to heal around the infection. It had lived through this injury and kept on going, even with that pain. 

What kind of detail was this to include for something that had never lived? That it had a bad tooth? To write into its fictional history that it had _suffered_? Why would you do that just to send some unknown message so much later? 

They opened their eyes and pressed their cheek against the upper jaw, so they could stare into that orbit. 

“Were you real?” They didn’t expect an answer and yet felt some faint whisper of unknown desire across their skin. Some faint hint of things long past. _Live_. It had wanted to live. That last echo of a dying creature was simply that it wanted to live. They couldn’t possibly feel that from something so ancient. 

And in that moment they widened their eyes because they hadn’t questioned if the creature was real, only their own perceptions. They _believed_. They believed the humans. They believed what their mundane senses told them. What logic and intellect told them. What all those questions piled on top of questions had told them. his beast was millions and millions and millions of years old. Far past the years they _knew_ existed with surety. They thought they knew the history of the world. And they didn’t. 

They believed this history. They KNEW what their memory said should be true and yet and yet… here staring at the remains of this creature, it was more believable to them that all those Days of Creation they thought they knew … they actually knew nothing about. 

They didn’t know what was crueler, that this truly was such an elaborate ruse as part of the great Plan or a terrifying truth. If it was a lie, it was a very detailed one. To set up everything in advance so specific people would see specific things at specific times so as to come to specific beliefs. An elaborate lie to show those that might actually see some bit of the truth something that would stop their questions or send them in the approved direction. 

If this was the truth though, then creation after creation had been wiped out for unknown, incomprehensible reasons. Only now some part of that Creation was aware of what was happening, could look upon that suffering and ask _why_? 

They’d only asked questions. 


	5. Asking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter  
> Crowley having body issues, trying to keep corporation together. Very poor self care. Starts to realize he needs to do better but is uncertain how.  
> Scent of blood and sweat described.  
> Period typical racism. The doctrine of “separate creation” is discussed. Is rejected by Crowley  
> Period typical sexism. Also rejected by Crowley  
> Crowley has a breakdown again.

If he was smart, Anthony would have taken a day off to rest and recover mentally. To realign his sense of time and self, but he hadn’t expected to receive such an expansive offer of help simply from _asking_. He thought he would need to manipulate and maneuver them into doing what he wanted. _Needed_. He had to take what was offered, now, before it was rescinded. 

He didn’t think he could maneuver Lakes and Cope into doing it later, not when his own mental state was now so compromised. His physical state too. Relying so much on raw power just to _function_ , he could feel that itch of scales trying to bloom across his skin, revert him to his true form. A reminder he was eternal, _powerful_ and beholden to Hell for that power and he damn well better do his job or lose that too. 

He scratched at his sternum, trying to remind his corporation to behave. Even if he was taking abysmal care of it. He could run it entirely on miracles. It shouldn’t be this hard. It was entirely too hard with his mental state this bad. He just needed to stick it out for the few days Lakes had offered to stay and help and he’d be able to do… something. 

He’d have pulled himself out of time to just _think_ , but as his thinking was about the nature of time itself, that seemed like a good way to end up fucking that up horribly. Trap himself in a time loop. Unravel part of reality. End up unable to perceive time on a human scale anymore. He was a _mess_ He needed to do _something._ Hopefully his future-self would know what that something was. He just had to _get_ to that future. 

As much as he was afraid to ask for more, what Anthony really wanted most from Lakes was instructions for the whole dig staff. If they all were working with the same knowledge it would be much easier to bolster things with miracles. The rest of the staff could fix what was wrong to the best of their ability and wouldn’t question some other things if they knew what was _supposed_ to be happening. It could endure past him leaving. He would have to do so eventually. Soon. That time was getting closer and closer. He was uncertain how he felt about that. This was an assignment, but also, he needed to _understand_. He needed questions answered. Even if it was destroying him. 

He needed to ask for more help but he was certain he’d be denied and get nothing at all. This was too much. He couldn’t do this all on his own. He _could_ do it all. ALL of it. But at what cost though of shaping that miracle to take apart the whole mountain? Just tear the bones out of their graves. Forget what was written around them by nature or by divine hand, he didn’t know anymore. He could just pull them free entirely. At great cost to himself. At unknown cost to the humans here. This message was for them. Probably. To be obtained when and where they were supposed to. Or was this message for him? He couldn’t believe it was for him. It was too cruel. 

He sat in his tent with his hands pressed over his eyes, trying to see what to do in the strange unresolved images on the back of his eyelids from the pressure. He didn’t know. He didn’t fucking know what to do. Didn’t even know what question to ask. He was a mess. He needed help. 

He couldn’t do this all alone. He couldn’t SEE. Can’t form a miracle if you can’t see how to put it together. He couldn’t even hold himself together as he could feel that absence of sight leading him to focus on scent, pushing his tongue to fork so he could try and perceive the world. Be the _demon_ if he couldn’t be the man today. 

There was the scent of the ever present dust, harsh and alkaline, almost painfully sharp. It was muted some by the dew burning off the canvas of the tent in the morning sun. There was also something herbal, vegetal nearby where he’d stepped on some plants as he’d stumbled in last night, trying desperately to fold his wings away. An earthy scent of dung being burnt in the nearby cookfire mixed with juniper to keep the food from tasting too dank. 

He himself stank of nerves and fevered nightmares and exhaustion, overlaid with the musky scent of reptile. How could he even _be_ sweaty and reptilian at the same time? Worst of all combinations. But even over his own stench, he caught a more human scent of work sweat mixed with blood. It didn’t smell like his own. His own blood always had an overlay of occult power to it that marked it as clearly non-human to his senses. This was rank, musky, and metallic, almost grounding in its unpleasantness. 

He swayed slightly, homing in on source. There, by the corner of his tent. He carefully removed his hands from his face, spots dancing across the inside of his eyelids. He cracked them carefully to let his slit pupils adjust and spotted the little pile of soiled clothes tucked just inside his tent flap. 

He hadn’t had to offer anything. But he’d _wanted_ to. To do something. To make someone’s burden that much less. He could tear apart a mountain for a madman. Or he could do laundry and ask nothing. He could be… trusted. 

No one should trust him. He should pull up stakes and just leave, throw everything into chaos with his disappearance. It was what a proper demon would do. Let consequences fall on everyone but him. 

He trembled as he went and picked up the little pile of clothes. They weighed so little and yet felt so heavy. This he _could_ do. One thing that was so little and meant so much. 

The tiniest little bit of power and clothes were clean and ready to be returned. He couldn’t return them just yet without it raising questions. He’d have to wait ‘til tomorrow at least. He just had to get through today. Just one day that seemed impossibly long even before it started. All he had to do was ask for help. Be clear. Be honest. 

_Fuck._

* * *

* * *

He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking. Lakes had responded to his initial request as Ash. He hadn’t had to try and compel him. He’d just… talked. Why was this now so hard? He’d asked him to come to the site for a consultation. But Lakes hadn’t known _who_ was asking. It _was_ him asking though, just a different face. One he’d put more effort into being seen as the sympathetic face, the kind face, while heaping curses on this face he wore now. 

But he’d also used that other face to draw out information. He’d used some of that information to cause chaos for Marsh’s dig but he’d also used it so he could use his powers for… not so hellish purposes. Not really heavenly either. He frowned. Very _earthly_ purposes that Heaven wouldn’t bother with, not with people that were so inconsequential to their plans. But they were people _someone_ would bother with. 

He’d asked as Ash, but he needed to ask as Anthony now. Someone Lakes only knew from all the things he’d said about himself. Some of which were lies. Some of which were very much the truth, but just phrased so as to leave out some details or make other things unbelievable. 

He’d called this face a demon while sitting and sewing at night and had it laughed off many times with a “don‘t I know it. That’s just men for you!” It was _a joke_ to people that he could be so bad, so awful, so _expected_. Humans were much more creative in their cruelty than he could ever be. He was just too… _something_ to do any of that. He couldn’t name that _something_ , it would let it live in his mind. He _wasn’t_. Couldn’t be. He was a _demon_. 

Ash was closer to that than he was. But Ash was him too. Just a different face. But also a monster. Ash was the one who’d loosed their inner form to chase that horse rustler to madness. Who’d garnered enough goodwill that Lakes tried to walk her home to protect her from the snake that was him and her and them all at once. 

It had been easier to ask for someone else. He’d been asking for Anthony, who was asking for others. He needed the help, and had been offered the help based on it was for more than just him. That he wasn’t asking for him… that he… that he _cared_. And he _did_. 

Caring for himself was just _hard_. It hadn’t always been so hard. He could tempt others into doing things. Things they wanted to do and sometimes he also wanted. But to just ask… he could feel the trembling in his hands, feel his nails digging into his thighs through the pockets. It was too much to think of. 

It hadn’t _been_ this hard. It HAD been this hard. He’d been coaxed into accepting help, accepting what was offered without it being carefully weighed and measured as to a thing owed exactly each time. And then had finally asked and been so harshly rebuked. 

He couldn’t ask. He was _powerful_. He didn’t _need_ help. He did. He did. Asking was just…. If he asked for others and it also benefited him... That… that he could do. 

He was a terrible demon. 

The things _he_ needed, he couldn’t just do. He wasn’t omnipotent. He wasn’t omniscient. He _was_ powerful. And confused. And lonely. And had to be weak and vulnerable and confused to be anything beyond powerful. It was awful and humbling. 

He shouldn’t be afraid of asking. Lakes had already agreed to help. He probably wouldn’t turn him down. And yet, his mind supplied many reasons he might. Foremost that he had said so many things about himself that made him seem undeserving of… anything. 

Lakes had come because Ash asked. For Anthony. And that was it. Asking as him was too hard. He could ask for _others_. Even if that other was himself. He could ask as Crowley, for Anthony. It was _stupid_. 

It might work. 

Lakes was waiting for him. He waved at him and got a ‘come hither’ kind of arm motion back at him. He tried to relax, to let his corporation settle into being Crowley. 

“Crowley. I’m Crowley.” Just hearing his name was grounding. 

He let the scales slide across his skin beneath his clothes, let his eyes go full yellow behind his glasses. He pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth, making sure that stayed human. No manipulating or tempting. They would just _ask._ Crowley could ask for Anthony and if they were denied, that was Anthony being denied. Not Crowley. It was stupid. It was brilliant. They hoped it worked. 

* * *

* * *

Lakes had nodded along as they laid out the merits of spreading as much of his experience around as possible. More eyes that knew when something was going wrong meant better odds it would be caught early. And that way if anyone fell sick or injured, there was backup available to take over. There’d be checks to make sure things were taken care of instead of missed due to ignorance. 

Lakes hadn’t so much agreed to the proposal as just started discussing details of what things they should review with the crew. It might be a little chaotic trying to speak to the whole staff, but he’d been a teacher before all this. He knew how to manage it. He’d spend the morning looking over the site to review what conditions they were dealing with instead of a more generic overview. Was there anything Anthony wanted specific instruction on? It took them by surprise that not only had Lakes agreed, but now wanted to know what he, Anthony, _wanted_ to know. 

How to drive the anchors. That seemed to be what was going wrong. They would go in, but wouldn’t stay put under the vibration of being walked on and torn at by the wind. Or the rock would just collapse away from the anchor point days or weeks later, leaving the anchor hanging in space and the weight of the structure resting on only a few good ones which would collapse the rest. 

What was he doing wrong? Was it the wrong place? The angle? The wrong material? All of these together? He knew what the scaffold should look like completed, but he didn’t know _why_ it looked that way. 

It was likely that they didn’t really understand the properties of the stone they were driving it into and picking bad spots. So Lakes would focus on the basic geology and telling apart the various layers and properties of each one. He’d talk about the scaffolding material with Anthony tomorrow, since he would be handling acquiring materials while the rest of the dig crew wouldn’t. Anthony could pick a second person to act as back up. Just pick someone who was good at math. How was Anthony himself at math? Quite good… in his own specialized way. Well then, they had a plan! 

So all Anthony had to do today was get everyone rounded up for the afternoon and they’d cover all the things they needed to review along with warning signs of possible collapse. 

Crowley was surprised at how easily it had all come together without them needing to try and actively persuade Lakes. Talking about themself as if they were someone else had _worked_. They weren’t sure it was a good idea long term, but they needed to be able to do this _now_. It gave them just enough distance to not be so frightened. And they were frightened. They could recognize that at last. 

It wasn’t a totally irrational fear and yet it was _too much_. It was out of proportion to the hurt they would feel. Not everyone would hurt them so gravely by just rejecting a request. They knew that and yet the fear was still there. Treating _Anthony_ like someone else entirely gave them a layer of protection. It was just like their glasses or their corporation. _Anthony_ could filter out some of the sting of the world, make it bearable. 

* * *

* * *

This simple plan started to go wrong as Crowley walked around to pull people from tasks for the afternoon. The foreman for the main site wasn’t initially on board with it, but could see the merit in making sure everyone could spot signs of an imminent collapse. They’d been lucky so far. The earlier dynamite accident had made him cautious in all the right ways. 

Cope, however, did not like the idea of idling the whole site for the rest of the day, even if it was a matter of safety. The rest of the staff didn’t _need_ to learn or understand how to design all that bracing and scaffolding, just follow directions. That was knowledge for those that could _understand_ it. 

Crowley found the whole idea infuriating, beyond that it would make their own tasks easier. Surely having more staff that understood the basics of what they were doing could only benefit Cope? Why wouldn’t he want more of them to know? 

The argument went around in circles as Crowley honed in on Cope’s reasons. On Cope, he felt no need to do this the human way. To just talk. Oh there was talking, but he could also chase that _desire_. Drag it out with questions so he could find out the true shape of Cope’s desires and why it took _this_ shape. Realized as his tongue forked and his power spilled out, he was once again chasing his _own_ desire instead. As if solving this would solve his own questions. _What was so bad about knowing?_

Control. Cope wanted complete control of the area. Of this vast graveyard. While it might be useful to increase the skills of his staff to a certain point, a shortage of skilled workers also kept other scientists out of the field. It cut down on the odds of his staff going off to start up digs on their own. They’d lack the skills and resources to do so. There would be no bidding war, they’d have to stick with what Cope paid them, even if it _was_ more than Marsh. And this particular set of skills was too easily transferred to mining. He wanted them trained just enough to be useful to him, not so much that they had other _options_. 

It was the same sort of thing that had left many of the older diggers unable to read. Laws had made sure that anyone that dared teach them would end up in jail. Can’t let certain people think they might be fundamentally the same as others, if only they were given the _opportunity_. If you can’t even sign your own name, you can’t fully engage with all society has to offer… not that it's offered to _you_. It had taken a war to start to change those laws, but the attitude that went with them was still there. It was just seeking new ways to express itself. 

Many of the staff had come out here in the vain hopes that maybe, maybe they could get away from that system before it reasserted itself after the war. Before it found its new form. But no. The same attitudes and beliefs would follow them here. The same argument played out over millennia and the entire world. 

Their argument was too loud, but this was an argument he _wanted_ heard. Let others make their own choices based on that. Know that the system was already closing back in again. He drew Cope out to saying that which he would only say to the face of his peers, not to those he would expect loyalty from. Crowley only brought their voice down when they hit on Cope’s other reason. 

Cope truly believed this instruction would be utterly wasted on most of the staff here. Cope was convinced they had been made using a different plan. They had been made as separate, lesser creations. They could never rise to the level of intellectual pursuits of men like Cope or Lakes or even Anthony. Next Anthony would be suggesting that the camp cook could comprehend such a lesson! She had no need for that, hadn’t been _designed_ for that sort of pursuit. 

Crowley was deeply, deeply tempted to curse him right there but that was not the point. They could be a good demon and twist his words around to get what they wanted and let Cope damn himself further. Let him do the good thing for all the worst reasons. 

They turned Cope’s words back on himself. What if he considered it like one of his sermons delivered to the dig staff? Let them hear what Lakes had to teach and let them realize how very limited they were. Would not that be a good lesson, to learn their place in the order of things? It would bring them that much closer to their own separate destiny if they saw and accepted their lesser place. And with them having been shown their limitation, Cope would no longer have to deal with them having any illusion of choice. 

Crowley put the full force of their charm behind it, even though they could hear the hiss in certain words. They were a good demon. They were just repeating back what Cope had already said so many times. It already lived in his soul, he just needed to _act_ on his convictions. Crowley was just offering him a way to act according to his already existing beliefs. 

Cope did truly believe in that separate creation and the divine order of things. Usually Crowley liked to tear at that sort of faith, break it down, but now he could use it against Cope instead. All he had to do was speak Cope’s version of The Truth back to him. Cope looked right at him and saw only Anthony, not the Serpent. 

They pressed on. Was this not why Cope had dug up these beasts in some way, to illustrate that Plan, that striving towards that ultimate perfection of form that he himself represented? Was he not then demonstrating that very perfection by bringing that order to light, by getting them to accept it in the here and now? Could there be anything that better demonstrated his own nobility and perfection than to guide others to seeing it? 

Crowley threaded power through his speech, tailoring the exact choice of words used to perfectly suit Cope’s own sense of himself as uniquely qualified. Why, yes, well, he could perhaps spare them the day of work. It _would_ be like them receiving a sermon on a day of rest. Even if they didn’t understand the words in full, they would know the rightness of them and be content in their station. 

Cope seemed slightly confused at having agreed to all this, but then when the staff met this change in attitude with confusion and suspicion, a few whispers from Crowley were all it took to make him shout his orders. To question his decisions simply meant they needed this demonstration all the more… 

Lakes had spent the morning taking notes and was ready to speak to the whole staff about geological properties of the site. His face was carefully composed like he hadn’t heard any of that. The utter blandness of his expression made it clear he _had_. 

Crowley had no such composure and grinned with slightly too many sharp teeth from the way Lake’s eyes briefly widened. 

“Didn’t think you were going to get him to agree.” 

“I’m good at what I do.” And they felt like they _were_ right now. They’d sown exactly the sort of chaos they liked best. Let the humans choose what they did with that knowledge. 

“I do have one concern. This is going to be a bit technical. Not sure how much they’ll get.” Lakes made a gesture with his chin at some of the staff that had been poached from the railroad. 

“I’ll transsslate.” 

Lakes gave them a bit of a sharp look at the hiss, but they were good at what they did. That they were a literal demon would never cross their mind. Not when they were doing such good work. “Didn’t know you spoke Chinese.” 

“M’full of surprises.” He’d managed to banish the hiss for now. 

Lakes headed up one of the walkways so he’d be visible to the whole group. “Some of this is going to be things you already know, but I want to make sure we have the basics covered before we get into the technical details. Then you know WHY I’m telling you to do things differently than you have been. I know all these rocks look very similar but they’ve all got different properties based on type and composition and if you drive a piton into the wrong kind, it won’t stay. So to start with, I want to focus on the difference between siltstone and shale. You can see a transition between the two here...” 

Lakes had good voice projection and was a solid, meticulous speaker. Crowley slunk to the side with a little group of former railroad workers. Zhao was doing most of the translating. They were all focused on the information, with occasional little soft back and forth questions between the group trying to make sense of the words. None of them had any idea what the technical word was for some of these so just left the English word for now. That’s how they’d be speaking about it with the other staff, anyway. 

Crowley scratched at their chest as they focused on just listening, feeling that slight edge of scales beneath their nails. They spoke enough Chinese to carry on a normal conversation, even if the staff tried to hide their amusement at Anthony’s overly formal and archaic speech peppered with English words for things that hadn’t existed the last time Crowley had an assignment that took them that far from home. They had been patient with Anthony the last few months, updating his syntax and pronunciation so it no longer sounded like he was reading from an old drama. They appreciated the attempt, no matter how stilted it sounded. It was much more than anyone else tried. 

This was beyond their skills, no matter what they’d said to Lakes. A bit too technical on both ends. This group here had been with the railroad so actually had more skilled knowledge than most of the other staff already. Zhao might be able to carry it all on his own. But he might not. 

He knew how hard it was to ask. It was easier to _take_ an offer. He could just _do_ this. But that might not be what was _needed_. 

“Would my aide in translation be welcome?” 

There were a few chuckles at that. They always found the antiquated accent funny. 

“I am taking the lead, but we are all contributing what we can. Perhaps your formal schooling will be of use. Do what you can.” 

Crowley nodded in acknowledgement and then just stood there and listened. Language was a more difficult miracle than most. It was on par with healing because it required such precise shaping. But here, the risk was to the miracle worker rather than the target. Language wasn’t a static thing. Miracles could speed up the acquisition or even bridge that initial gap but it didn’t grant full fluency by just vaguely willing the ability to communicate. To get that, you had to let in more of the person speaking, to understand the full meaning of the words and how they went together. It was the difference between understanding each individual word in a poem and actually understanding the meaning of the poem as a whole. They pressed their hand flat to their chest, willing the scales back down. For this they needed to be less a demon and more a human. To let that miracle work properly they needed to communicate in a fundamentally human way. 

Miracles directed at yourself had the potential to go catastrophically wrong and be difficult to undo. They’d done the language acquisition one many, many times and it was always a little frightening. But they couldn’t focus on that fear as that was where the danger itself lay, in that the words and their acquisition became intrinsically linked. The _feeling_ would become linked to it. Words weren’t neutral things. They had weight and power with them. These in particular carried the weight of time with them. Different than they had known it. Different than they had perceived it. To let them in might let in that belief as well. They’d already felt it creeping into them last night. Maybe this message _was_ partially for them. 

They pushed away that train of thought and just listened, focusing on what the message here, now, was. Zhao was trying to help. Trying to understand. Trying to make sure the others understood what was being said. Lakes was also trying to help. He wanted to teach. He was picking his words to specifically try and make himself understood by men that had very rarely received this sort of instruction. Maybe had never received any formal schooling at all. 

He started to shape the miracle, letting his mind separate Lakes and Zhao’s voices and recognize the delay in translation. Match them up with that lag in time. Swap around the syntax. Absorb what Zhao chose as the best translation for some of the words so he could build on them shortly. 

He let that miracle be shaped externally for a little bit until the two strands were running parallel in his mind, so he heard them simultaneously. Now he just let them in and they were no longer passing through him, but becoming part of him. Now he _understood_ them simultaneously. 

The feeling that came with it made the acquisition easier and more dangerous. To be _understood_. To want to _help_. He could feel that slight frisson beneath his skin of that desire tied to those words taking root in his true self. He’d come over here to help with the translation for similar reasons but there’d also been sheer _spite_. He wanted them to understand specifically to strike at Cope and his entire idea of separate creation. Tear down the idea that humans were inherently divided, made separate for separate destinies… some of which included suffering and subjugation by others. It was one of the theories he’d most despised hearing in his time on the East Coast salons. And yet so very, very prevalent as a way to justify a great many ills. It ran so close to his own personal experience. He might be damned, he might be supposed to damn others, but damned if he was going to let that poisonous idea take root and flourish again. 

It wasn’t entirely comfortable to feel that angry edge being ground away by descriptions of the different properties of stones. He _wanted to help_. That was true. It was. But it also hurt. He could feel how neatly that feeling curled up inside him, the miracle made easy because he wasn’t fighting the feeling. He _should_. He was a demon. He shouldn’t want to help at all. But he did. _He did_. And he also desperately wanted to be understood. More than anything else. That was his _own_ desire. To understand. To be understood in return. He could feel that miracle trying to twist in his chest, to give him the words to say to the people around him who and what he was. He grabbed it firmly and pushed that down. No. Not that. Just what they’d come to hear. They didn’t want to know about _him_. That was an unasked for burden. They just wanted this information about the earth itself. He could do this. 

Focus. Just say what was asked for. What was _needed_. Zhao was starting to struggle with a concept he didn’t quite understand. He understood what was being described, he just couldn’t match the words up between languages. Anthony took over and let the words flow through him. He understood force and shear and angles and the pull of gravity. He just hadn’t understood how they worked somewhere so small and tiny and earthly, on a time scale so short. But now could let the words go through him and leave their mark in turn. He _understood._

He could feel the smile on his face as he spoke, but couldn’t quite get rid of it. He wanted this. _He wanted this._ To help. To give a gift of knowledge. To let it be taken or denied as the listener choose, without the feeling of persuasion or compulsion behind it. He was a terrible demon. But right now he was being Anthony rather than Crowley, so it didn’t matter. 

He broke off occasionally when he felt it was all becoming too much. He wanted to _be_ understood. He needed to focus on just listening, not saying anything. This wasn’t about him. He’d let Zhao take back over and focus on just absorbing the lesson himself. 

He also listened to the little asides and the additional information from the other people there, also contributing what they could. Sometimes it is just a clarification of a better word or phrase to use. Sometimes it is entirely new information related to what they are hearing. They had more practical knowledge. This stone he is describing, you can tell it when you hit it with a pick as it makes a duller noise than the one he just described. Or they would describe a texture, or use their hands to illustrate some technical detail. No, see, the force travels like this from the blow. The break will happen here with this type of grain. It was all a little too much. 

It took him a moment to realize he was being spoken to directly. A hand has been laid on his arm to get his attention. 

“Are you alright?” It’s Lin asking him, who’s often acted as the negotiator for the group, doing his best to make sure they are paid the same as the rest of the staff. 

“No.” It is true and honest and said without thought. 

“You’re crying.” It is said very softly, with a gentle pat to go with it. Everyone else is firmly focused on the lecture, politely ignoring this exchange. That kindness is too much and he chokes on a sob. 

He tries to pull himself together. He scrubs at his eyes under his glasses. He is seized with a desire to take them off, to be seen. He presses a hand to his chest to try and press himself back into that human skin and is surprised that he feels no scales. 

“Thank you.” His voice is terribly hoarse. How long has he been talking? How long has he been _crying_? 

“He is almost done, I think. You should rest your voice.” It borders on a command, but it is delivered gently, like a suggestion. It should be infuriating to have a human speak to him like they’re older and wiser, but they may actually _be_ wiser right now. 

“Yes, thank you. Show me later the thing you described of tapping the stone to find a crack you can’t see? Please? I want to understand. _Please_.” The words taste strange on his tongue but he also wants this. He can feel that desire to understand is entirely his own right now. Not Cope’s or Lakes’ or anyone around him. This is all his own desire coming to the surface. Curiosity is his great weakness. To _ask_ is to ask to be hurt again. 

“When your voice is better, yes. So you can ask questions.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Crowley starts taking better care of himself! He gets some darn comfort! But he still has another paleontologist to deal with and that doens't go so great.
> 
> (it is mostly written and maybe 2020 will leave me alone for a little bit. HAHAHAHAHA)


	6. Needs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley struggles with being a person. With wanting to be known but also not knowing what parts of them they want to actually be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter warnings:
> 
>   * Crowley’s mental health still poor, but he’s trying to get better. He’s learning to accept help. 
>   * Disordered eating. Recognized and an attempt is made to address it.
>   * alcoholism. comes up as something others have suspected of him. He realize he's had some bouts of problem drinking when depressed. realizes he'd maybe taken that too far.
>   * Blood- Crowley pulls a scab off 
> 


“Anthony. Anthony! _Mister Anthony, sir_.” 

“S’not SIR! What are you… why… ?” Anthony squinched up his eyes at seeing light coming in around the edges of the tent canvas. That seemed wrong. 

“Professor’s looking for you. He’s real mad.” He could recognize Zeke’s voice from outside now. It all suddenly made sense where and when he was. 

“Shitshitshit overslept! What day is it?” He sat up and frantically patted at himself, verifying, yes, he had hands. Right body at least! 

“Thursday?” At least it was the day he was expecting. He used a hasty miracle to make sure he was completely dressed and put a hand to his face to make sure his sunglasses were in place. He pushed out of the tent and stopped dead at how bright the sun was. It had completely cleared the rim of the canyon. No wonder Cope was looking for him. 

Something was being shoved into his hands and he took it out of sheer confusion as he adjusted to the light. He made an incoherent noise of bafflement, then hissed slightly when he realized he’d been handed a hot tin cup. 

“Why… you brought me…” 

“Coffee. You better sober up before he gets here.” 

“I’m not drunk, I’m just tired.” He tried to shift the cup so it wasn’t so hot, but realized the other hand was occupied as well. There was a piece of cornbread in it. He stared at both blankly. This was just too much to sort out. His shoulders slumped inward. “I’m so tired.” 

“You look like Hell.” Shit, he thought he had the right body. But it hadn’t sounded scared, just… sympathetic. That was even more confusing. 

“Why are you here?” He stared blankly at Zeke, who took the tin cup back from his hand and turned it around to get the handle in his hand instead. 

“Drink your coffee.” Anthony grumbled at that but went with it anyway. It tasted like it had been reboiled in an old sock, but it did the job of reminding him when and where he was. 

“This is the worst coffee I’ve ever had. The worst.” But he drank it anyway. It burned on the way down his throat. 

“Hallie reused the grounds, so yeah. But she was willing to make you some.” 

“If it’s that late, shouldn’t you be working?” 

“I’m running messages, ain’t I?” 

“So you are. From Cope?” 

“No. He’s just busy yelling and people scattered.” 

“Shit, sorry.” He really was. It surprised him how easily the apology had come out of his mouth. 

“He’s the one yelling.” Zeke shrugged 

“Should get going then.” Anthony got in motion towards the camp and that was swearing alright. Just cranked up to unusual volume. He wasn’t sure what had got Cope so riled this morning, but not having Anthony to hand to steer it somewhere meant everyone was a target today. 

“Eat too.” 

“I know how to take care of myself.” He really, really didn’t. 

“You never eat breakfast. You’re organizing stuff usually. Nobody noticed you were missing ‘til he started yelling about where you were at. I figured you must still be asleep then.” 

“Alright fine, I don’t eat in the morning. Breakfast is just… hard.” He’d never gotten the hang of it at all. He could eat more regularly in the afternoon or evening when he’d had some time to adjust to time. He just… hadn’t done that yesterday either. Had he eaten? He didn’t need to, really. He kept meaning to. It was better if he did. He just didn’t like to. _Anymore._

“You almost died.” Zeke sounded genuinely concerned. 

“Yes, I almost fell off the upper dig. I’m fine now. We’ll get the new scaffold in, won’t be a problem anymore.” 

“Mr. Lakes said you fell because you hadn’t eaten anything. Professor said you were drunk.” 

“I… hadn’t eaten. ” 

“Eat something then.” It sounded so simple. 

“Fine, fine, since you want me to.” He looked at the piece of cornbread he’d been handed but it seemed unappealing. He used to like to eat. He’d never had a very regular appetite, but he’d enjoyed it. Enjoyed the company. He just… he didn’t enjoy the company right now. And he’d eaten less and less and relied more and more on just power to get by. He didn’t NEED to eat. His body _did_ need something to run it and raw power had worked. He’d still been eating somewhat on the East Coast. Hadn’t liked it, but he’d been doing it until he started getting… disoriented. It became too much of a burden. Too confusing. It reminded him he wasn’t a demon. He needed to be a good demon. He didn’t really want to be. Not with people where he enjoyed their company. Not with people that cared enough to make sure he took care of himself. He swallowed hard. 

He owed it to them to at least _try_. He had some more of the horrible coffee. But there was a taste of _desire_ with it too. Hallie _wanted_ him to eat. _Wanted_ him to be healthy. It was why coffee had been remade after everyone else had eaten. It was enough to get him to brave the cornbread. He could do this to please others, even if they didn’t see him doing it. A bad habit, but useful now to get him back doing the good ones. 

“See, eating.” He’d managed to get through half of it. He might be able to finish it now that he’d gotten this far. 

“Why are you humoring me at all? You’re the boss.” 

“You… didn’t have to do any of this. You didn’t owe me anything. I didn’t expect anything. I really didn’t.” 

“I didn’t expect anything either. Nice to get something, is all.” 

“Yeah… yeah it is.” He managed to finish off the cornbread and coffee. “Can I ask you to do one thing?” 

Zeke looked at him sidelong. “Maybe.” 

“Tell me when you’re getting up to go to breakfast so I don’t oversleep again.” 

“That’s no trouble. All I gotta do is call you _sir_ to get you up.” 

Anthony hissed at that, but it was mock annoyance. “I’ll tolerate Mister, but _Sir_ is where I draw the line.” 

“You’re the boss.” 

“Don’t be saying that in front of the Professor.” 

“I try not to be where he can see me. Speaking of which… he’s your problem now.” Zeke started to peel off now that they were into the dig proper and sounded like they were about to run into Cope. 

“Hey, hey wait. Give this back to Hallie so she doesn’t take it out of your hide, stealing the cups. Tell her… thank you.” 

“She gave it to me… but she will be looking for it.” Zeke took it back and then slid off between two stacks of lumber brought in to build crates for shipping things back East. 

Anthony homed in on Cope who sounded like he was yelling about some specific direction of his not being followed. 

“Anthony! Where the Hell have you been!?!” 

“Snake problem. Dealt with now.” Sort of true on both counts. 

“Snake?” That had completely thrown Cope off his rant. Of all the possible excuses he’d been expecting, _snake_ had not been one. 

“Great big black one seen around camp? That one? Think I’ve got it gone to ground again. Should be less of a problem.” Now if he could keep it on the inside, that would be a question for later. 

Lakes looked concerned. “There’s a great huge one some people have seen at the other dig. I’m not quite sure I believe people’s size estimates, but concerning.” 

“How big?” Cope seemed equal parts repulsed and intrigued. 

“Big enough to kill someone, if so inclined.” Anthony wasn’t, but if pressed… “I’d worry about the rattlers more, blend right in with the dust. At least you get a warning about those most of the time.” 

“Whatever the species, it seems unique to the area.” 

Cope seemed mollified for the moment. Anthony’s somewhat disheveled appearance worked in his favor, as if he’d actually been up working. 

“Now that he’s here, we can get started and you can get back to overseeing having that skeleton crated and loaded.” 

“Fine, fine., I want you back later.” 

“Once horses are loaded. Don’t want me anywhere near that process.” 

“So I’ve heard.” Cope looked as if he didn’t quite believe the tales, but Anthony _did_ have other work to do. 

* * *

* * *

Anthony was happy to follow Lakes up the scaffolding. Lakes paused at each section to check the beams and anchors, noting where wood was bowing and coming close to breaking. Anthony lost himself for a while in the discussion of the technical details. Now that someone was here to actually _show_ him how the physical world interacted with the theoretical he could feel it slotting together in his mind. Not just the way to calculate what he needed, but how to figure out what the whole thing could sustain without collapsing. It was all just so _small_. So fragile. So earthly. 

The general concepts were things he knew instinctively, he just hadn’t understood how they interacted with the materials. The stone, the wood, the type of rope, even the metal alloy used in the anchors could affect how the scaffold moved. He hadn’t realized it should be allowed some planned movement to absorb some of the vibration from being walked on. 

It was all very exciting but he was now running into the limits of Lakes own knowledge. He simply didn’t know the true strength or flexibility of various types of timber, cured under who knows what kinds of conditions. They might look the same on the surface, but the underlying structure would be different. It was all a series of best guesses and deciding how much risk they could take. 

“I can keep telling you about what the best practice is, but this is so far from best practice….” Lakes shook his head. “There’s so little of the materials we’d usually use for this readily available. I think this may be a fool’s quest to get these fossils out of such a high spot in such a short timeframe. The cost in materials alone… there’s simply not the infrastructure to do this yet. You need either a crane or a winch at the top, and simply building enough scaffolding to get a suitably large winch up there… If we were in a city, all this would be available.” 

“But we’re not.” 

“We very much are not. I understand some of the interest in getting these things out but…” He crossed his arms across chest and just shook his head. 

“It’s madness.” One he’d fueled and had been caught up in himself. 

“It really is. What I would actually recommend is excavating your way up to build a road, but that could take years if you hit any fossils in between the base and the top, if you pause to excavate them properly instead of dynamiting your way up.” 

“Cope will probably run out of money before then.” 

“Probably will as well.” 

Anthony made a more noncommittal noise there. He’d driven Cope into the madness of pursuing this. Cope _could_ stop. Might stop once he went back East and was among his horde of existing specimens. The madness might fade then. Anthony had fueled it, but the spark of that obsession had come from _within_ Cope. It might not die down. 

“The only other option I see is full excavation on site to get it down to pieces small enough for a few people to be able to carry a piece down by hand. These massive blocks he’s been crating up… that simply can’t happen. Not now. Give it a few years to plan this better, bring in equipment and materials… perhaps. But much of the uniqueness of these is seeing them all together. Taking them down to tiny pieces loses what makes the find so interesting. Taking them out so quickly risks losing a lot of knowledge that might be gained.” He stroked at his mustache and Anthony could see him running his tongue along teeth as he tried to work his mind around the problem. He finally shook his head again. 

“I can tell you what to do to make this as safe as possible to get as close to what Professor Cope wants, but I don’t think this is actually a task that _can_ be completed before winter comes. No amount of yelling will make that happen. I wish I could have been of more help.” 

“You were really helpful and didn’t have to be. At all. I really appreciate it. I think the staff does too. I know many of them seemed confused about why they were getting a day idle for this, but long term, it's a real help. It’ll keep everyone a lot safer. It’s always so frantic, especially with the Professor here. He wants things done a certain way. But he’s…. There’s not that much structured….hmmm... guidance on how to do that.” 

“I heard him yesterday.” Lakes shifted uneasily. 

“And gave a lesson anyway, to people he thought would get nothing from it.” 

There was a soft snort there “Everyone is worth trying to teach. Sometimes you just need to change your methods a bit for different students.” 

“Doesn’t really seem the done thing around here.” Or in all the salons and lectures he’d been to. Honest questions aimed at understanding had often been seen as attacks, or opportunities to attack. He’d been as guilty of that as others. Encouraged it. It was what he was _supposed_ to be doing, turning knowledge into a weapon to be used against each other instead of actually absorbing it, learning from it. 

“No. Not so much. But I come from a different background than most of the folks out here, so.” There was a soft shrug of things unsaid but implied. 

“Americans aren’t that different.” 

“No. Perhaps not. But there’s a certain impatience many times with actually teaching something properly. There’s two very different strains of how it's done depending on whether you work with your hands or you work with voice and mind. Doing them together is its own discipline.” 

“You seem to have a deft hand for that.” 

“I _was_ teaching. I only picked up the fossil prospecting because the school I’d been teaching at burnt down. Then I got rather caught up in this. It’s really very interesting but well…” He sighed dramatically and looked off in the direction of where Cope was supervising having fossils crated. From the way people were scrambling, it wasn’t going well. 

“There’s some big personalities involved.” 

“That’s a very tactful way to put it.” 

Anthony barked out a laugh at it. “Tact is not usually my strong point.” 

“You can be. I’ve seen you with the fellows here. You’ve got a deft hand with saying things the way people will actually HEAR what you’re saying.” 

“Manipulative is what you mean.” He frowned slightly. 

“I’ve met your sister. She said something along those lines, though with less tact.” 

Crowley snorted at that. “We’re a fine set.” 

“Yes, I can see how that can be manipulative, but you can just as easily use that to make sure they actually absorbed the information they needed to know. After we were done yesterday, you went around to each group to ask them questions to see what they’d missed. Making sure they _understood_ rather than were just repeating. I was doing the same, but with such a big group with such differing experience levels, I couldn’t have spoken to everyone even if I tried. And I couldn’t have done anything for the ones that didn’t speak English fluently. I had no idea you spoke Chinese.” 

“Enough. Some of it neither Zhao or I knew the word for, so just used the English word.” Anthony shrugged, as if it had been nothing. As if the words and belief hadn’t seeped into his bones. “So long as it works, doesn't matter so much then if it's the real proper word or one that was borrowed. Not like English doesn’t borrow them all the time.” 

“True enough. You seem to have a good grasp. Speaking a language like that would put you in good stead elsewhere. And you’re certainly well educated. So why are you here?” 

“Why are you?” 

Lakes narrowed his eyes at him, but replied. “This is good money. Better money than I was making. Gives me time to look for a better teaching post rather than take whatever is available. I can also stay in one location long enough to send inquiries and get replies. It seems like you should probably be doing the same.” 

“Looking for another job?” 

“Yes. This will likely burn out. But a teaching post might be a good choice. You seem to have a knack for it. Your sister as well since she keeps helping out with church on Sunday mornings.” 

“I ah… that… it didn’t work out…” He could feel that traitorous want to be _understood_ still in his bones. There was a temptation there to just open up, to say something, to show himself to someone, anyone and hope this time, maybe he would be understood. But he knew the terrible danger in that. Humans couldn’t actually hurt him. Not really. But they very much could. With every recoil, with every harsh word of rejection, with every time he was pushed away as something strange and _other_ he was reminded he was not like them. And yet he wanted someone to _understand_. 

“Did you eat?” He stared blankly at Lakes, not quite understanding how they had gotten to here. “Did you drink something?” 

“I… had coffee. And I ate. Probably too little. I haven’t… I can’t eat in the morning a lot. Makes me feel weird. Then I’m not hungry. Or I forget.” 

“Sit down then, have some water.” He pulled a little flask out from inside his vest and handed it to Anthony. 

Anthony took a swig of mineral heavy, body temperature water that tasted far better than it should have. Lakes sat down on one of the cross pieces and started packing his pipe. 

Anthony drank slowly, trying not to let more words spill out of him. He knew Lakes and he also _didn’t._ Lakes couldn’t get him fired here, but could get him fired as Ash if he said too much. He couldn’t afford that. Well… he _could_. He didn’t have to do things this way. He could go back to chasing Marsh through the salons of the East Coast, tempting him there. Go back to being _Mr. Crowley_ , full of poisonous questions that turned knowledge into a terrible weapon. 

He didn’t want to. Wasn’t sure he could. He’d been falling apart, losing time. Losing himself. Hell had given him a great deal of leeway with how to accomplish this job but they’d want more concrete results than people making social jabs at each other. 

Here… he was losing himself as well. Pretending to be two different people. Two different people fighting over… what? Over the parts of him he didn’t really like much. The parts he was afraid made him unlovable even to himself. 

He looked over at Lakes, who was looking off into the distance while smoking his pipe. He wasn’t even looking at him. He was totally unconcerned about the demon next to him. No… that was wrong. He _was_ concerned. He just wasn’t worried about Anthony. He was worried _for_ him. And that hurt more than it had any right to. That strangers, that humans, saw him falling apart, saw him losing himself, and were… treating him like a human. 

The silence was worse than actual questions. It wasn’t really comfortable, but it wasn’t tinged with any specific negative emotion either. This wasn’t angry silence, or meant as some punishment, and it didn’t feel like some manipulative tactic even, it was just… waiting. He didn’t know Lakes well enough to be quiet in his presence. To feel connected with someone while silent. 

“I’m sorry I keep drinking all your water.” He pushed the flask back at Lakes. 

“Finish it off and I’ll refill it when we go back down. You need it and there’s more water available. I’d suggest you carry a flask, but...” Lakes took a draw off pipe, letting words and smoke hang in the air. 

“It’s not true. The drinking. It’s just…” He took another sip to stop himself talking. He sniffed and was unsure if the alkaline dust or feelings was what made his nose burn. 

They could see goings on down below of dig staff trying to load up carts again. Men straining to shove crates up an incline and onto an open wagon bed. They’d completely pulled the sides off so they could lash the crates directly to the frame for stability. So much manpower poured into dragging the bones back East. It might be decades before the crates were ever opened. They were just moving bones from one graveyard to another, from one open to the sky to a private tomb where they could be tallied up as treasures. They would likely become someone else’s obsessions and burden upon Cope’s death. Perhaps that was the message here, that they could not belong to one person, could not be handled by one person, and yet… Cope was willing to try to do it alone. To be the conduit through which all that information flowed. Crowley sighed at it all. He still didn’t know who this message was intended for. That it was for him seemed… presumptuous. But if it was for the humans, it didn’t mean he couldn’t learn something from it. He could steal little bits of knowledge, like always. 

“I’m not a drunk. I know that’s the rumor, but I’m not… now. I was… I was drinking too much when I was still in London. Not the fun kind. This was drinking alone and sleeping all the time.” He picked at a scrape on his arm with a dirty nail, eyeing Lakes. Looking for some kind of reaction telling him how to feel about himself. 

“Something got you out of London. Out of that situation.” No direct question was asked, but it was implied he would listen to an answer. If he wished to give one. 

“Sort of. Got work that would take me to America. Everything home reminded me… of… just… I had to leave. I should have left before then. I got back to work. Did too much of that. It was… better and worse. Doing something. This is… I ran away. It’s… I’m still working. S’different. Same problems though. I… think I’m making myself sick. So _stupid_. Can’t do even this right. Have to be told to drink water. Stupid.” 

“But you’re drinking it. You can recognize there is something wrong. You asked for help with the scaffold. You’re not stupid. You had some idea what was wrong there, but needed help sorting it out. Even if you didn’t get the answer you wanted.” 

“No, no I didn’t. I came at it entirely wrong from the get go. Too fast. Had the wrong goal even, maybe.” 

“What do you think the goal is?” 

“I thought it was to get these dug out for Cope to take back East. I think the goal might be to read the message in the stone. Maybe I can do both, but I can’t do it the way he wants.” 

“Can be difficult telling people no when you have already agreed to do something.” 

“I … no is really, really, really hard for me. I… don’t like to disappoint people. It works out badly. For me.” 

“But you were ready to fight with Cope yesterday. It was rather loud.” 

“Was _supposed_ to be. He can fire me if he likes.” He sniffed slightly and brought his head up. “Be the right thing to do, honestly, so I don’t fight with him. But better other people have choice about it. Know there is some choice. I know for some folks there _isn’t_ another choice, only so many jobs about, but knowing for all his sermons he thinks so little of them… Then they know to watch out for themselves. There is no benevolence there.” 

“Rather harsh view.” 

“And it's _true_. He wants you badly and I know he’s offering you more money. Names on papers. Whatever he can think of. And you’re not buying. I don’t think you’re that loyal to Marsh either.” 

“No. But I bear some responsibility for some of their fighting here since I sent them both a sample shipment. When Marsh actually contracted with me, I asked Cope to send the rest on to Marsh. He did not take it well.” 

“No, no he wouldn’t. To put it in front of him and then take it away, even if it was yours to give and take… I’d heard about that. I hadn’t realized that was you. I’m surprised Cope wants you that badly then.” 

“He wants Marsh to _not_ have me. And I don’t particularly want either to “have” me anymore than they have any of this. It may be physically in their hands, but it's not theirs alone.” 

“You might be the only not-crazy paleontologist out here.” 

“That is because I’m actually a _geologist_.” 

Anthony barked out a laugh at that. “Fair! S’import to know what you are. What you’re about.” He blew air out of lungs in a deep sigh as words settled on his mind. That really was the problem, wasn’t it? 

“As hard as you’re trying, this is not what you’re about, it seems.” 

“I do actually like rocks! I very much appreciate the lesson. Just… gives me theological questions to grapple with. Questions about reality. About me. Too many questions always lands me in trouble eventually. Eventually ask one that’s unforgivable.” He realized he wasn’t even sure what question he was referring to at this point. It had ended so badly so many times and it tore at him every time and he kept doing it anyway. Asking someone he trusted about something. For something. And having it turn out that they did not have a high regard of him as he did of them. 

“It's not a bad thing to ask questions. But you can be graceful about it, acknowledge that asking a question of another person can hurt them. If you ask them a question about themself they aren’t ready to ask themself, it can shake their sense of who they are.” 

And that was really it. That was what he did, plainly stated. He was a good demon. Skilled. He could shake apart someone's sense of self and reveal the terrible truth underneath that they weren’t who they thought they were. Had done that and destroyed himself in the process. And that was a terrifying thought, that he might have asked something God was unprepared to ask themself. Had asked Aziraphale something he was unprepared to answer. It made sense now with his reaction. He’s treated him… like the demon he was. Is. Was. Both. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that right now. 

“You’ve been really, really helpful. Gave me more to think about when I really didn’t need anymore. Though maybe I did. Don’t know anymore.” 

“You seemed to be struggling and I don’t think you could be persuaded to go to church.” 

“Nooooooooo. Definitely not. Wrong sort to be in a Christian church.” 

“Have to come to you then.” 

“It most certainly will not.” 

“Already has. I’m a geologist and a minister.” 

Anthony just turned to look at him, sitting there and smoking his pipe with a piece of stone behind him that he’d said was 150 million years old. Who could hold those two contradictory philosophies together in head at same time and actually seemed to believe, and act, on both. 

“A _good_ one. You have _no_ idea. You should go back to teaching.” 

“Soon, if the college ever gets back to me. Consider doing the same.” 

“That… I think I need to just learn things for a while first. Figure out myself. Then… I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.” 

* * *

* * *

A few days of trying to actually function as a human got him on a slightly more even keel. Drinking water, eating, and sleeping on a regular schedule was annoyingly effective at getting his physical form to be less troublesome. It was _irritating_ that it seemed that simple. 

He gave up on camouflage for a little bit. If he was going to take care of his physical form, he was going to take _care_ of it. Let him blur the two versions of himself. Miracles let him banish all the ground in dirt from his clothes. He raked his fingers through his hair until it was as soft as if he’d cleaned it with a proper soap, with just that hint of vanilla and lavender he associated with a soft set of hands. It took him a day to realize why he’d picked that scent and it undid much of his improved mood. 

Trying _not_ to pick a scent was just as bad as it eventually drifted back to familiar odors that reminded him of better times, almost all containing the same person. He was his own worst enemy in that regard. 

He eventually ended up buying fancy soap in town when he was going to spend the next day fully as Ash. He spent the evening at the cabin with Samule curiously watching him in a tub miracled up for this purpose. He scrubbed himself ‘til he felt like he’d taken a layer of skin off. But he’d gotten rid of every trace of dirt the mundane way and thoroughly imprinted on his tired mind that if he did this the miraculous way, _clean_ smelled like one of the local plants. Something spicy and faintly bitter that suited him. It had a sharp edge similar to citrus but he had no memories associated with it other than the ones he made now. 

Spending the day shoring up her cover as Ash left her only slightly out of sorts. Some of her weariness was still visible to others even as she went about tasks. People inquired as to where she’d been since they’d seen so little of her. Busy with things. Mending. A great deal of mending. It was a lie and true all at once. 

He would have liked to spend another day sleeping in the cot at the cabin, away from humans, but didn’t feel like he could make the transit there as a snake and back to human form in the morning without undoing much of his progress. He’d need to fly back at night when he was sure he’d be unobserved. He didn’t trust his ability to turn away people's eyes when he could still feel that need to be _understood_ whispering in his bones. He needed to avoid the daytime swaps as those were most wearing on him mentally. It reminded him he was a demon in a human skin. Anthony wasn’t really… people. 

And he very much wanted to be. 

Even with improvement, he was still mentally exhausted. His emotional exhaustion was so ground in that it no longer registered _as_ exhaustion. But the improvements elsewhere made him start to question that and then promptly shove it away again. He could only deal with so many problems at once and he couldn’t solve that one by just throwing miracles at it. 

Some of the others, they just might be able to do that. 

If they _had_ to be a demon, they were going to take advantage of _being_ a demon. They had the excess power right now to risk setting up a more complicated method of transit, that didn’t require shifting. They could _just_ manage it with their own personal reserves if they were strategic and clever, which they very much weren’t right now. But Hell had thrown extra power at them to handle current assignments since they didn’t actually know how much they needed, or how thrifty they could be when drawing from their own personal reserves when they wanted to keep things hidden from Hell. Right now they did need the excess to make up for being sloppy. Because they weren’t at their mental best. This would… help. Probably. They’d see how it actually felt like it was or if left them just as disoriented. 

They used a piece of stone to chip sigils into the stone at two points hidden in the great hogback. This was something that had to be done mundanely, lest the miracle doing it go horribly awry and trap them there. Most important was the sigil that was their own, that would be used to call them for a summoning. It was the most important part and simply writing out their own name this way made them more sure it would work. There was _power_ in that name. A name so different from it had once been long ago. They could recognize some pieces of what they once were in it and also see how it had changed with time. How _they_ had changed it. 

No sigil for Crawly would compel them now. They could still hear it being called upon, but there was no compulsion to answer it. It was entirely up to them whether they wanted to acknowledge the one calling. It was them and not them at the same time. Their current name had come and grown from that one. 

They ran their fingers over the great sigil. Here in this curve and this array of dots around it, there too was a part of what they had once been even before that. Never truly gone, but they no longer answered to that name anymore. They weren't sure anyone else knew it anymore except the one who had given it to them, the same one who had forced that change on them. It was not _all_ of them anymore. They’d grown past that. But still, the hurt was there sometimes. If it was all planned out ahead of time, that suffering had always been written into their name, even before they knew what it was. 

The rest of the carving took more time. The other sigils were _almost_ banishments, but twisted and warped to another purpose. They wanted to set up a tension between the two sets of sigils to both push and pull them at the same time in a delicate balance. They included some sigils to contain them, but not in the usual sense. These were to hold them together, but uncontained and uncompelled. The only container they needed was their own corporation. 

They’d picked the two locations based on where they had come and gone the most as a serpent. There was a path carved there for them to travel across as surely as they could travel across telegraph wires. They were just setting their own receiving stations that no one else could perceive or use. _Crowley will arrive today_. 

They did the carving at night, letting their form bleed out of corporation so they could see in true darkness inside the rock cleft. These sigils would never be in direct light. Never truly visible to anyone else. As they grew closer to completion they could feel the instability there, the simultaneous push and pull away that felt almost like shapeshifting, but without actually doing so. 

Having gotten both ends completed it was finally time to try and actually push power through it. They were fairly certain the worst outcome would be being stuck as a snake until they could destroy them. Probably. They drew power straight up from Hell to empower the sigil in front of them. They shaped the miracle and sent it along the occult path they’d carved through the hogback with repeated miracles. They could feel the power of it pulling at them like an unseen wind whispering through the darkness of the earth, their Name becoming part of it. 

They found a spot they’d scraped themself earlier in the day and tugged the scab off with a slight sting. It didn’t take much blood to activate these sorts of things. It was just as much the intent as anything else. There was no need to do something as dramatically stupid as cut their palm as so many summoners did. Those were a mess to heal and many people didn’t trust them to do so even if they wanted to. The slow seep of blood from a scraped knuckle was plenty. 

They could feel the vibration of power dancing along their skin, ready to be activated. This was either a great idea or a terrible one and they were about to find out. They pressed the blood to the sigil and felt it pull on all the blood in their corporation, making them acutely aware of how they were contained IN that body. That human form was outlined along all the twisting veins and arteries and deep down into the marrow of the bones. They felt suddenly so very, very present and connected in a way they hadn’t for a long time. This was _their_ body. They shaped it with miracles to suit them. To _be_ them. It was not just a container they were stuffed into. This _was_ them. 

Even with that feeling of connection, they still were aware they were _not_ human. They could see the faint occult glow of all the complicated sigils laids out, somewhere beyond human sight like an afterimage on the inside of their eyelids. 

“Crowley” The name he’d chosen. It gave voice to the written form, placing it in the here and now. He was eternal and changing and also here right NOW. They felt that conduit open up and they pushed their hand through it and it was disorienting to have that sense of hand vanishing before them in darkness and yet also feeling as if it was somewhere else. Going slow would probably make it worse. Miracles were shaped by belief and this WOULD work. They stepped through and abruptly found themself facing away from the power of the sigil, now draining away behind them. They faced a rock wall inside a stone cleft. They were pretty sure it had worked… 

They turned and looked at the opening going out to the little rock cut and walked out. They could feel that tingling after effect as if they had been summoned, but it was rapidly dissipating. There was a clear smell of _demon_ in that scent of something burning and transforming into a new state. It quickly faded away into their own normal, corporeal scent. There was that rankness of nervous human sweating with that strange muskiness of reptile that almost manifested more as a taste than a smell. They licked their lips and tasted the dust there. They desperately wanted a drink and were a little surprised at actually registering thirst. 

Their task completed, the sigils lost their power to pull at them… but not entirely. They could still feel that power from Hell circulating through it, not entirely gone, but not entirely enough to make the transit again without pouring more power in. But each would take less and less until they could do it without Hell’s power at all, entirely on their own if needed. 

Assuming they’d actually come out at the right place. They came up the draw and there was Ash’s little cabin. Samule was busy cropping grass but his ears flicked back, scenting something. His head came up and then was coming to the fence with an eager noise. 

“Alright, alright you menace, petting.” Samule had plenty of water and grass, but he’d been left alone more than usual this past week as they were spending so little time as Ash. 

They came into the little corral with him to check the little spring they’d manifested into existence was still flowing clearly and into the depression in the stone. They crouched down and dipped fingers in it before bringing cupped hands up to drink. They splashed water over their face and Samule bumped his nose into him, nearly tipping him into the water with a squawk. 

“Oh, as soon as I look at the water, now it's all yours? I made this for you, you menace.” Samule blew at them and more gently bumped his nose into them while they finished drinking. They stood up and scratched at the mule’s shoulder. 

Overall they felt… good. They didn’t feel the disorientation they’d felt with the swap between human and serpent and back again they’d been relying on. If they’d just gone one direction it probably would have been fine. They just were distorting time and space along with their body to do it. Doing it twice in a row when already disoriented, in retrospect, probably hadn’t been their best idea. Amazing the clarity that came with taking care of themself. 

They had clearly summoned themself as a demon but they also felt connected to this human corporation. The binding parts to keep them within it during the transit had worked. They hadn’t spilled out at the other end as a serpent or with their wings out as sometimes happened when they were summoned by humans. They hated when that happened. They usually put care into how they appeared and having some mortal just strip that away and demand they wear another form to meet their expectations often left them disoriented and snappish on arrival. Just because they could be a snake didn’t mean they wanted to be turned into one based on the demands of others. That reminded them too much of others. 

They should probably make sure they COULD shapeshift if they wanted. Accidentally locking themself in one form would be dreadful. They relaxed their hold on this form but the shift wasn’t instantaneous. The serpent seemed deeper down, carefully tucked away rather than constantly trying to spill out of their flesh. Maybe that was down to how they’d felt more connected to this body. They didn’t entirely want to turn into a snake right now anyway, but there wasn’t that instant bloom of scales and opening of senses. It felt slightly muted. There, but contained. Just one extra layer between them and that inner serpent. Like their sunglasses filtering out some of the sensory data from the world. 

They flexed their hands, looking at them intently. Even with having purposely called forth some of that monstrous inner self, these still felt like their hands. Flexing hands forced a little trickle of blood out of the scrape and they brought it to their mouth to lick it clean. There was the bright, copper taste of blood and then Crowley was squinching up their face and sticking out their tongue at the alkaline dust taste. 

They’d spend the night here and make a transit back just before sunrise. Or fly back if it turned out not to work in the opposite direction. They had more options now. Hopefully this would keep them feeling more like themself… whoever that was. 


	7. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is letting love back into his life. Love of humanity. Love of the world. Self.... not so much. A little self tolerance is a a good first step. Has some self reflection on being a demon and what kind of responsibility that entails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter
> 
>   * Reflection on *possible* suicidal/ self destructive tendencies. Recognition of this as something to be addressed
>   * reflection on the Fall and being unlovable
>   * sound of bugs at night
>   * Crowley is still struggling with self care, specifically eating. Still a bit disordered, but he’s trying
>   * Reflection on the inherent power imbalance in any kind of relationship he has with anyone, including friendship. Including Aziraphale. Realizes there’s some Problems there.
>   * Brief reference to possible sexual relationship between Crowley and a human. Crowley absolutely _not_ into that. Human relived he’s not interested in sexual favors
> 


* * *

It was a relief when Cope finally left with several boxcars worth of bones. He’d be busy for years cleaning and cataloguing them back East. And yet he left with instructions that he still wanted _more_. So long as he kept paying, he would keeping getting more. Eventually he might run out of money and stop trying to add to his horde. But with how driven he was, he might exhaust his entire fortune buying boxes of bones that he would never have time to open. 

With Cope gone, Crowley didn’t _need_ to stay, but was reluctantly realizing they _wanted_ to. They’d gone to the trouble of setting up the sigil before they’d even really admitted that to themself. They probably could have pushed Cope into leaving faster if they’d really wanted to just move on to dealing with Marsh. Instead they’d spent their time and power on making sure they could keep living a split life. 

To that end, once Cope was gone Anthony had a talk with the foreman, Carlin. Anthony’s sudden promotion had been a slight to him, but he could be talked around that it was Cope’s idea. He had a lot of ideas about how things _must_ be done. Now that he was back East, they could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. 

“You _are_ the boss of me, now that Cope is not here being unreasonable about all this. He wants fossils, he gets fossils… but we don’t necessarily have to go after the ones he wanted near the top. Those are too hard to get out and he pays by the specimen. He negotiated no bonus for those. I have a proposal…” 

Anthony still had responsibilities, but with that proposal he was no longer trying to supervise a site within a site and unbury it at a breakneck pace. He was happy to let the foreman actually do his job again. 

And part of that job was making sure they weren’t wasting time working when they shouldn’t be. Digging ceased after the midday meal and didn’t resume until the sun had moved enough to start casting long shadows again. People saw to smaller tasks in the meager shade or spent time actually planning how to do things instead of everything being done at maximum pace and urgency all the time, based on Cope’s current obsession. 

Sometimes Anthony slipped away during those times to go be Ash, as he’d soon enough have to deal with Marsh. Sometimes he just sat and talked with people during that period. Since he was now a more reliable translator, sometimes this meant he spent that time doing exactly that. Sometimes he was less translating and more just repeating words for others. He knew all too well that sometimes people’s voices were discounted based on their appearance or accent, so was always willing to be the one to repeat them word for word to those in charge to get them to listen. 

Sometimes he actually was the one in charge and got to make decisions based on what people told him they _needed_ to do their job. He liked some of the minutiae of working on a large communal project with many moving parts. Occasionally tools or supplies he knew they couldn’t readily get miraculously appeared in some corner of the site that was in disarray from Cope’s visit. That “I’m sure I saw that somewhere…” dodge became harder as time passed and the site went back to being more organized. 

Anthony had been turning over Lakes advice, both sorts, since he’d left, but for now was focused on the physical. He needed something to occupy his mind that was potentially solvable. And Lakes’ suggestion of how to get up to the great tangle of bones if time wasn’t a factor eventually led him to seeing one of the site’s problems as a solution. Once the overburden was removed from the fossil beds, it had to go _somewhere_. The piles of dirt and stone had a tendency to collapse in sudden rain or just when a load was tipped into the wrong place. Pushing it up against the unstable rock face they’d already covered with canvas to keep the scaffolding in place would prevent washouts and start the process of building a road up to the top of the cliff face. It wouldn’t get Cope what he wanted this year, but someday it might let someone else figure out the message written there. 

He was really unreasonably pleased over figuring that out. It wasn’t really his problem to solve but he liked puzzling it out so it could be done by humans if they just worked together. And the people… he rather liked those. And they seemed to like him and it was something he couldn’t just give up. He would have to leave eventually. Hell would make more specific demands. But for now he had a month to just … be a person. 

* * *

* * *

Now that he wasn’t so physically and mentally exhausted, he could slip away at nightfall to spend time as Ash again. Sometimes Crowley simply did enough to keep that cover, but more often would do laundry, see to Samule, and then head down to town. Be a slightly different person, but still _them_ in some way. And was equally surprised that people seemed to have missed her, sharp tongue and all. Where have you been? Busy with mending. So much mending. They didn’t need to know it was herself she was working on. 

The nights were slowly lengthening again so despite frequently being up late, it wasn’t that disruptive to Crowley’s sense of time. The more important part was going to bed sometime while it was dark out and then waking up when it was light. That seemed to work to set their sense of days passing, even if the actual amount of sleep varied greatly. Getting a little less sleep and a little more… whatever they were getting from humans… seemed to be working. It was a bit embarrassing. 

Zeke was doing a good job of making sure Anthony got up on the days he was expected there. The crew still got a day off on Sundays, as Cope considered that important for their spiritual enrichment, even if most fellows piled into a few wagons to go into town Saturday night and were missing from Sunday services. Ash often got to hear where they had been Saturday evening, for good or ill. 

Nobody concerned themselves with where Anthony got to on that day off. Crowley usually did spend Sunday morning in town so as to be seen as Ash and then spent the afternoon up at the little cabin. They couldn’t entirely neglect planning for Marsh, but for now, they mostly focused on making themself a more secure and comfortable space for when they had to spend more time there as Ash. They were very much not thinking about how they really should leave Cope’s dig once Marsh arrived. That split life had been too great a strain on them mentally. That was obvious. Yet… here they were trying to figure out exactly how to make it work anyway. It was foolish. 

Yet there was still something about seeing those great bones revealed that spoke to them. Maybe they were just letting themself be overwhelmed by others' excitement. But there _was_ excitement. It wasn’t simply just a job to many of the diggers, especially now that they understood more of what they were looking at. Someone on the dig would let out a whoop at having found something new or unusual and people would come over to gawk. 

Maybe that was some of the message here. That there were still things to be _awed_ by. This wasn’t the excitement of finding a glittering piece of silver or gold that could buy a dream. These were objects of fascination in and of themselves. If these people were guaranteed what they needed to live, they might dig them up all on their own, to show them to others with wonder in their eyes. 

Finally here in the dust he understood some of the idea of cabinets of curiosities as something other than a sign of wealth. The _curiosity_ was still there when people looked at these bones emerging from the earth. Were there more? Would they ever find a whole one? What did these look like alive? It was much more wild and fanciful speculation than would have happened in a salon or at a symposium. No respectable scientist would have waved around a claw while making animal noises. Or argued with their friend about what sort of noise was the _right_ noise. 

It was hard, dirty work but it also let people make up stories to try and make sense of the world. And when someone asked him what _color_ this dinosaur was, he found himself excited by _not knowing_ and having to imagine it. It didn’t matter what had been Written. His version was just as good or bad as any other person’s here. 

* * *

* * *

As much as Crowley enjoyed just being with other people, being a person, being _Anthony,_ they needed to remember that they were also _Other_. They had a responsibility here.They couldn’t just let themself get swept away. They were supposed to damn people, but they wanted it to be because of human choices, not from their carelessness. So some nights, they flew to remind themself they weren’t human. They flew so far that they ached in disused places even when they folded their wings away before collapsing into bed. 

They’d unfurl their wings and fly far from camp. The great open sky was unmarred by London’s pall of coal smoke. The stars, they’d missed them so. There were so few eyes to turn away to start with and in darkness they didn’t cast the sort of shadow that made others look up in instinctive terror. Flying in London was just too risky most of the time and grew riskier every year. They wouldn’t be able to do this once they returned home. They had no idea when Aziraphale had last flown. It might have been even longer for him. 

They chose to land in high places they could be alone with the earth. It was silent in a way London wasn’t. Far from humans but still with the sounds of the earth living and breathing on its own rhythm. There the main sounds were just the wind and the drone of night insects. They could almost, almost hear the stars there via senses that had been burnt away in the Fall, leaving them able to only see them like everyone else. But here, they could hear the sound of a pulse in their ears and look up at a pinprick they knew sang in the same rhythm. Or had once, long ago, when the days were different. When _they_ were different. 

Clear nights like that, they could fully relax and not try to close off their senses as there were no people to demand anything from them. No outside desires intruded on their own other than simple beastial ones like survival. They could tell what nights they’d fully been able to release all hold on their occult senses and just experience _the world_ as they absorbed some of those base desires. 

Those mornings after, they would come to breakfast with Zeke and actually beg Hallie, the camp cook, for a second plate as they were ravenous. They’d spent the night awake and consumed by their senses, open and searching and feeling, absorbing such basic and uncomplicated desires from the very earth to eat and grow healthy and strong. It probably wasn’t good for their mental health. It was fabulous for it. It was both. 

It was making them realize things had been… bad. They needed to be more careful of themself. To BE themself. The roar of London had grown around them and they’d had to fold themself tighter and tighter inside their corporation to keep it from destroying them. They’d done so much shifting of their shape this trip. Letting their wings out in a way they didn’t do at home, their frequent shifts as a snake, and the back and forth between genders and none at all. They felt simultaneously connected and disconnected from their body, as if they were rediscovering how it was _supposed_ to work. There was less of them as a static and eternal thing too vast for this world and more and more they were… they were something less and more at once. Fragile and changeable. They weren’t… sure … they were eternal either. Some day soon it would all end. It was Written. 

But right now, they were a _mess._ Their own internal sense of self was out of sync with what everyone else saw. They were always shifting to be something else. What someone else _desired_. What was needed in this situation. 

They’d grown so dependent on Aziraphale as that anchor amid London’s constant roar and background noise that he had overwhelmed them. They’d wanted what Aziraphale wanted. Which might be… them? Sometimes? Except it was a warped version of themself, molded _by_ that desire. They realized now how _dangerous_ that was. 

They knew they had to be wary of getting too focused on the desire of humans and having it overwhelm them. They _knew_ this. And still. And still they’d ended up like _this_. They were a fool. Aziraphale wasn’t _unchanging_. He wasn’t _safe._ He wasn’t _harmless_. He had his own shifting desires and goals that weren’t Crowley’s. Oh, they overlapped a lot. They wanted many of the same things. Just which ones they were and who they’d originated in… that was more complicated. 

They needed to be just as careful with Aziraphale as anyone else. More so even. He could destroy him. Had he known he could? Had he sensed that willingness to do _anything_ for him? To _be_ anything for him? Had it frightened him? 

Would they lay down and die for Aziraphale? If Aziraphale wanted them dead would they just… accept that? Lay their head down and let him take a flaming sword to them? Take this body and submerge it in a tub of holy water? Did they trust him to the point of total destruction? 

They might. 

That was a _problem._

They needed to be careful. 

They just needed to do this job and make it stick and they’d be in Hell's good books, bad books, _whatever_ for a while and wouldn’t _need_ that insurance they'd asked for. Probably. They could just keep travelling like this for a while. Sort things out. Keep taking assignments away from home. 

They missed home. Even if it wasn’t _home_ right now. Wasn’t sure it ever could be again. 

They needed to figure out how they actually _felt_. Be careful of themself. Maybe... Take care of themself. They’d honed that ability to sense desires over their time on earth. But they hadn’t thought it could destroy them like this. They knew it could _hurt_ them, lead them astray sometimes where they were too focused, but destroy their own sense of _Self_ … that was terrifying. But it was also part of their abilities, just like their ability to distort time. And now they realized how much of that self they had lost as they’d withdrawn into themself. 

They were just too much crammed into too small a space. They hadn’t wanted to become less. To be changed. That’s what had happened anyway. They hadn’t understood why. Had _asked_ why. Why would You change me when I’m already ME? 

They hadn’t been able to formulate the follow up questions yet. They hadn’t known they existed yet. Surely She had known they were all wrapped up in that question. If I’m already ME, why would you change me? Why wasn’t I made perfect to start with? Why would you do that? Will I still even be me? Do you… do you not want me? 

They only knew the answer to the last one. 

* * *

* * *

Being woken at a relatively consistent time seemed to work well for setting Crowley’s internal sense of when he should wake up, even if it was less than a normal human should have slept. So long as he slept enough for his mind to mark it off as having ended one day and begun another, it was sufficient. Now he was sometimes even awake when Zeke stopped by to wake him as he left for breakfast. Whether he ate or not was still dependent on what he’d done the previous night, but he could be consistently persuaded to drink coffee. 

Sometimes coming back from night flight or walking back from the cleft with the sigil in it he could smell where the brush had been recently touched by someone else, indicating either Zeke had roused at some point in the night and gotten up or had come in quite late himself. Sometimes if the tent flap was propped open for ventilation Crowley would peer in briefly at him sleeping and shoo off any snakes that may have decided to investigate the space in the quiet of the night. Other people might wake up with snakes in their tent, but Zeke never did. 

It was a surprise then one morning where he woke and the light seemed like he’d slept later than intended but also hadn’t been roused. A quick miracle got him dressed and tamed his hair. It was getting a bit long again but he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with it yet. 

The tent flap was dropped closed and he was reluctant to actually look inside. That seemed a little too intrusive to actively look in on him, to see him before he figured out how to present himself for the day. He had other senses he could use. The serpent was buried a little deeper these days but was still easy to rouse. It just wasn’t slipping out accidentally anymore. He let his tongue fork and he could pick up Zeke’s sweat along with several other interesting scents that made his eyebrows climb above the edge of his glasses. 

“Wake gradually in the time it takes me to return, as if I was the sun rising.” It barely even counted as a miracle, as such things were aligned with his Nature. He turned and headed off to go retrieve breakfast at a not-quite-trot, but quick enough that Hallie remarked on it when he turned up. 

“Zeke better be right behind you or it's going to be slim pickings on breakfast.” 

“He’s the one that overslept this time. Seems fair I return the favor and fetch for him for once. I swear I’ll bring back the cups and plate. Upon my non-existent honor.” He put hand over his heart like it was a very serious matter. 

“More important you bring back the cutlery.” Hallie shook head at him, but could see a smile around her eyes saying charm worked. “Don’t know where it all goes. Someone thinks “oh this is just the right tool to dig out this bone” and then come meal time, suddenly we’re all out of spoons again.” 

“Not me, I know better than to touch your tools.” 

“Enough charm, get something for you both and bring it back. You eat too, you hear? Look like you’ll snap in half someone give you a hug.” 

“And who would be hugging a scoundrel like me?” 

“You have your fans, lord help them.” 

“You have _no_ idea.” He got shooed off with two bowls of grits with some kind of gravy on it. He wasn't going to question too closely about what the meat in it was. The coffee was just as strong as usual, but at least it was fresh so didn’t quite have that scorched reheated taste to it yet. He could tell it had been cut with chicory again. The taste was growing on him. 

He went back up at a more measured pace so he didn’t drop anything, trusting the miracle would nudge Zeke to wakefulness by the time he returned. A cuss from the tent and frantic scrabbling noises indicated he was indeed up. 

“I fetched you breakfast! Just get dressed. You don’t have to run.” 

There was a vague grumble from inside and a “How are you up first and why do you sound so damn chipper?” 

“I had coffee already.” 

“Give it here.” A hand got shoved out the tent flap and he turned around the cup to give him the handle. Anthony settled into a squat where he could attempt to eat. He knew he should and it was still a struggle to get that first thing in for the day when he hadn’t managed to actually relax the night before. Coffee made it easier. He missed tea though. The less said about the tea available here, the better. 

Anthony had finally conquered the first bite of grits by the time Zeke emerged. Zeke had taken time to get fully dressed and put together, though there was still a faint line on his face where he’d fallen asleep on his clothes. 

“When’d you become a morning person?” Zeke had already downed half his coffee. 

“Absolutely not. I refuse to be a morning person. I’m only up this early because you trained me to get up. I’ll go right back to sleeping away the morning, given half a chance.” 

“I actually am a morning person. Just was up… late.” Zeke took the other bowl from him and stared at that while his face turned red. He ate standing up. Anthony had tried to show him the trick to balancing in that squatting position, but he still hadn’t mastered it. 

“Just so long as you’re not sick. Though I suppose if I’d said you were sick she might have given me more to feed you.” 

“She might have given you _tea_.” 

“Better not be sick then.” 

“I’m not.” They were quiet for a bit, just eating. “You’re…. not going to ask?” 

“I believe that was what we agreed to. If you tell me, that’s up to you. But I’m not going to pester you, so long as you say you’re fine.” 

“And if I wasn’t?” 

“It’s hard not asking. It really is. But it’s your life. Unlikely to be improved by me meddling.” 

“You just ask me to come live up here with you. Do my laundry. Fetch me breakfast. _Meddled._ ” 

“You fetched me breakfast first. And I didn’t ask you up here, I just said you could, if you wanted. S’different.” He sniffed and stared off into the distance. 

“Meant _something_ though.” There was another stretch of quiet, broken only by the scrape of the spoon across the bottom of the bowl and the sounds of early birds around them. “You’re not mad?” 

He turned head to look over at Zeke, who was concentrating on the bowl very hard. “No? Why would I be?” 

“You say it's not a thing, but experiences before this… people want _something_.” 

“I’m just grateful you wake me. Anything beyond that… I like having you up here but you’re so _young_ …. It’d be _weird._ ” He wrinkled up his nose at the entire idea. 

“I’m not a child.” There was a hint of anger there. 

“I know that. But I’m so much older than you and you sort of work for me… there’s just so many... _things_... where power balance is all with me. I could hurt you so badly and you’d have so little recourse… “ He shuddered at the entire idea. Every relationship he had was tainted with some kind of imbalance like that or a hidden motive and the entire idea of having some kind of physical relationship with a human was just too much responsibility to bear. That would probably be a direct ticket to Hell for someone he cared enough about to find attractive and that gave him a moment of pause as it was all entirely too close to his ongoing problems with Aziraphale. He was in some way _ashamed_ of wanting anything from him, but Aziraphale understood the risk. He’d made that clear when they’d parted so badly. He knew a demon when he saw one and finally had treated him the way he _should_ be treated. 

“I never heard anyone describe it like that. They just… did that.” There was a strange note of sympathy there and Anthony drew his shoulders in close and looked away. He didn’t deserve any of that. 

“I know what I did.” He did and he didn’t. He could feel that idea trying to catch hold to something in his mind, but that was not something to discuss with anyone. “Now you know to look out for that. S’hard to let anyone see you when you know they can hurt you. Have hurt you. Different if it was an accident, but still _hurts_. If they know and use that power anyway… not someone I mind see going to Hell.” 

“It’s not like that. I was worried…. About a lot of things. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. But… the way she looks at me…. she _likes_ me. Me-me. The me I see me as.” There was such soft, gentle wonder in Zeke’s voice at that. 

“I’m happy for you.” Anthony put every bit of sincerity he could in voice. He was. So many things stacked up against them and humans still reached out to each other and sometimes found someone reaching back. He really loved humans and it _hurt_. “I hope she likes you more and more as she finds out more about you.” 

“Gosh I hope so too. It was… good but scary and weird? She likes me… but there’s some things I didn’t want to do ‘cause I feel weird about me and like some part of me is wrong and if she likes the wrong parts too… I don’t know what to do about it. Do I change them? Do I learn to like them too? This is _hard_. Isn’t it supposed to be easy? If you really like each other?” 

“I wish it was. If love really was that simple… I’d still be in England. I’d still be…” He inhaled sharply. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve got a good shot at sorting it out, if you already know what’s bothering you. Took me to this age to even figure _that_ out. But it's easier if you know someone loves you even when you have trouble with liking yourself.” 

“I don’t know if it's quite love yet. It’s… new. Exciting. I want to do so many things. Some are… uh… things….” Zeke was turning deep red now. “But also I just want to spend time with her? Get to know her? She’s so pretty I feel like sometimes I’m not hearing what she’s saying because I got distracted by the light on her hair and I feel stupid because I did want to hear what she was saying!” 

Crowley smiled at that. He could feel that sadness pulling at his heart, but could also remember so many times he’d felt the same. “I know what you mean. How are you real? How do I get to be this close to you? How are you even talking to me when I feel like I forgot what words are?” 

“Maybe it is then. Whoa. That’s… there’s got to be an easier choice than _me_.” 

“Still her choice… and if she picks you… what are you going to do about it?” 

”Oh… that’s a lot. Try to… accept that? That I’m worth the trouble? Is that what you did?” 

Crowley choked out a laugh that was perilously close to a sob. “No… I’m not worth… You’re smarter than me. That’s a good way to do it. If she already knows what she’s getting into with you, you’re a lucky man. You treat her like you always want to hear what she has to say, even when it makes you squirm because you don’t believe you deserve it.” 

“You should listen to your own advice.” 

“My advice is terrible.” 

“So why should I listen to it?” 

“Don’t. You were just asking if your instinct was wrong. I know bad. I know evil. I know _wrong_. You might be confused or uncomfortable or a bit disbelieving sometimes over what’s being offered to you, but you’re not _wrong_ for accepting genuine love.” 

“How do I know it's genuine?” 

“Fuck if I know. Tell me when you figure it out.” 

“I will. Sounds like you need it too. Left me with more questions than answers.” 

“S’what I do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the most complete Allosaurus skeletons ever found was collected in 1879 for Cope near the location this fic is taking place… it isn’t uncrated until 1903, six years after Cope died.


	8. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Othaniel Marsh finally arrives and Crowley needs to get back to being a demon and confront what that means. 
> 
> And finally breaks down over Aziraphale treating them like one over the holy water fight.
> 
> Good think for that emotional support mule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Negative self reflection by Crowley on their ability to be loved
>   * Crowley scares an animal. Is sorry.
>   * Colonialism- vague reference made to atrocities of that era
>   * Reflection on holy water incident and possible death related to that -Includes possibility of self destruction, possibility of violence between Crowley and Aziraphale. 
>   * Reflection on Aziraphale’s relationship with violence and capacity for such as a warrior of God.
>   * Crowley’s capacity for violence discussed
>   * Firearms specifically referenced and their differing attitudes towards weapons and their use
>   * Sport hunting discussed as social aciivity of nobility- no animals are hurt
> 


With Marsh due to arrive any day, Crowley reluctantly confronted the fact they probably would be unable to continue splitting their time between the two locations. It had almost destroyed them last time. It had torn apart their sense of self and left them feeling raw and fragile. Yet they also felt better than they had in a long time having gone through that. It had forced them into taking better care of themself. It had forced them to accept help again. To trust that it wouldn’t be immediately snatched away. They _were_ still fragile. They needed to be careful of themself. Just because it had produced _some_ positive things didn’t mean it would do the same now. 

Anthony managed to beg a week off “to reconcile with his sister” to see if they could come up with some kind of plan for Marsh, if they could focus solely on him. If not… Anthony would need to leave and only Ash would remain. They weren’t sure if they could bear losing the connections they’d made. They shouldn’t _need_ those. They were a demon. They were powerful. They needed to act like it. Act like they had a job to do or there _would_ be repercussions. 

They needed to figure out what Marsh desired. He had been hard to get close to on the East Coast where he was insulated between layers of people to keep the little unimportant things from bothering him. Like Crowley. 

They had been in his orbit for a while, meeting with underlings and acquaintances and learning about him through his relations with others. Marsh had a huge web of contacts but seemed to have few actual friends or peers. Cope had once been both and now they were dedicated rivals. 

Crowley had only met Marsh once, during a tour of the fossil collection at Yale with a group of other possible donors. They’d been unable to sense any desire on him other than to get his projects financed. They might have been able to steer the conversation to something where they could get a clear read, but it had taken them so long to get to that point already and they had been so _tired_. Time had been wearing on their mind and the presentation on horse evolution had not helped their conception of time stabilize. Marsh was a very convincing presenter. Crowley’d been the one left unsettled rather than their target. 

This left them uncertain what to do now. They would need to spend a good portion of their time just figuring out what Marsh desired. They weren’t sure where to start other than “dinosaurs”. 

At least they knew they were unlikely to be recognized in their current guise. Women were generally beneath notice so Ash would be able to fade into the background without any supernatural tricks needed. She would spend the next week at the camp doing a complete cleansing of every piece of bedding and clothing in place to finally knock out the bedbug infestation that had plagued the place. It gave her an excuse to be everywhere and anywhere at the site. She would be able to get extremely close while also not having to interact so closely that she could be overwhelmed with his desire as had almost happened with Cope. 

Marsh was at least easy to stay close to, as his first task on arrival was an extended meeting. She just worked in the area around him, losing herself in stripping down beds and changing out the sheets. Samule served his purpose as camouflage, appearing to have laundry to be hauled away, even as most was being cleaned and laundered via miracle before being returned right back to the original location. Only things that were in need of actual repair were being added to Samule’s load, when she could pay attention to doing them properly. 

It was all repetitive motions and tiny little repeated miracles to put her in an almost meditative state to just focus on people’s desires. She let the physical ground her in the here and now to keep from being pulled into that desire while trying to focus on it so intently. 

Lakes and the foreman William Reed were both currently threatening to leave over a multitude of issues, including disagreements with each other. With them not having a firmly defined chain of command and slightly different duties that both overlapped and were completely separate, they’d had several conflicts about how to allocate funds, with neither actually having final say. They had been much more amiable at the start, able to work things out as friends, or at least colleagues, for some of the time. Now they were becoming just as bitter rivals as Cope and Marsh. 

Ash knew Lakes still hadn’t found a new teaching post, or at least hadn’t mentioned he was leaving while walking her back to the cabin in the evening. So if he left, he might continue to prospect on the side. If he found anything it would set off a bidding war between them, possibly even bring Leidy or Agassiz back into the competition for fossils. Or even have one of the museum buyers snatch an unnamed species out from under them all. Marsh couldn’t have that. 

Reed had originally made the discoveries at this quarry with Cope’s current foreman, Harlow. They’d parted ways on bad terms. It had also fueled Marsh’s concerns that he might jump ship to Cope, even with his disagreement with his old partner. The intersection of money and dinosaurs seemed to be more than enough to fuel plenty of interpersonal drama without a demon getting involved at all. 

With both threatening to quit, Marsh had to deal with the possibility of being left with none of his most experienced staff. He’d been steadily losing low level staff as well, but one digger was interchangeable with the other so far as he was concerned. 

Ash tuned out the transitory desires of people around her who were similarly engaged in focused physical work: _thirst, shade, that annoying noise to **stop** , for Carlin to move to a different spot where he had a better view of his calves, this damn piece to come loose already!!!,_ and other similar fleeting things that were not deeply tied to people's natures. These were passing needs and wants that were not tied to their sense of self. She needed to dig down to the sorts of fundamental desires that drove long term actions and determined whether Hell could lay claim to them. 

Marsh was just focused on the short term desire to retain both of his feuding employees, with the occasional sense that he wished to make sure they did not become competition either. Reed and Lakes were more familiar so she could tune them out somewhat. 

She could hear the actual conversation only intermittently as she moved around where they were speaking so used Reed and Lakes reactions to get a sense of the flow of negotiations. The volume rarely rose above normal conversation level. Marsh lacked Cope’s explosive temperament and seemed to have a deft hand at reining in Reed’s outbursts. Those were sometimes presaged by a swelling desire by Reed to be heard, to be listened to, to not have his concerns and feelings dismissed just because he wasn’t saying them the way Marsh wanted to hear them said. 

Lakes seemed a more steady presence, with a less defined desire. Mostly it was a desire to _not_ do certain things. He was thus easier to sway as he wanted agreement and an end to the fighting with Reed. He would be satisfied with a return to the way things were a few months ago. He was easier to get to agree as he was more committed to making peace, even if he was personally disadvantaged in it as he valued consensus more. 

Marsh was frustratingly opaque in what he actually _wanted_. Whether this was because he saw the situation as a distraction from his own desires or this just wasn’t directly related to his driving goal was less clear. It was a bit of a relief to not be overwhelmed by someone else, even as open and searching as she was being, but it wasn’t actually getting her much insight into how to tempt him. 

She could feel some sort of obsessive desire there similar to Cope’s, but couldn’t pick out the actual shape just yet. She could pick up a clearer sense of avarice with him and that matched what she knew of him mundanely. Marsh was stingy and perpetually behind in payments for everything. She’d been on the receiving end of it several times and it was a major source of friction at the camp. It was in some ways the root of the argument he was currently moderating. Yet Marsh still wanted more of what he felt was owed him… which was _everything_. 

That resonated more as _pride_ and having identified it could now pick up some of the more subtle threads of it. Pride drove that sense that he was owed something unearned. That he was not an equal participant in social situations, that his words automatically rated more highly than others, regardless of expertise. When he actually was an expert in a field, then it seemed to manifest in a need to make his voice the _only_ voice. His word would be the one that was the indisputable truth. Continued conversation was merely there to make others fall into line. That seemed to be what Reed was reacting to, being told how he should feel, how he should speak so his words agreed with what Marsh was _willing_ to hear. Since Lakes already valued consensus, he was more easily swayed by this style, and she could feel his desire shifting to align with Marsh. Reed would be brought into agreement from two different directions. 

She had been on the receiving end of this back at Yale, but wrapped up in considerably more charm. Here where he was among people he merely employed and did not have to engage in social niceties with, he seemed colder and more distant. There he knew he couldn’t simply buy or demand loyalty, he had to actively manipulate and charm others to get what he wanted. Crowley had seen it first hand, been _almost_ taken in by it. 

There was a certain slickness there, a charm that Crowley had found appealing at the time but also knew was entirely false in its appearance. Marsh projected a certain air about him as a means to an end that would shift as needed to conceal what he wanted. He could twist things around and force the conversation around him, around appealing to him until you were convinced what he wanted, what he proposed, was what _you_ wanted. 

It was a particularly insidious sort of trick that gave her pause. She could sense desires directly but rarely did she try and impose hers on others. She might encourage them to pursue a specific course of action, but didn't try to change their fundamental desires. She knew how often she was drawn into that kind of trap herself, trying to draw something out of others and having it overwhelm her, warp her. It was subtle and insidious since you really didn’t know where you stood with someone once you started relying entirely on reading their desires. Where did your desire merge with theirs? Was it even yours at all or had you been carried away by theirs? Not that Marsh could do it any such way. All his charm and manipulation was natural and very human. What would he do if he had her skills? 

The idea was chilling and she wanted away from him _now_. She’d been overwhelmed before by Cope and the idea of Marsh doing the same made her skin crawl. She didn’t know what he desired. It most likely would be something within her powers to just _do_ and there was the danger, to just do it because someone else desired it without regard for consequences. She was too good a demon to not consider her actions. She had a responsibility here and right now that was to remove herself from his presence until she had a firmer grasp of what he wanted before she was swept up in it. 

She finished with the current tent and drew her occult senses in close around her. It felt _wrong_ to be retreating from a human. She was powerful and clever… and had limits and flaws of her own. She was _good_ at her job of sending people to their own destruction. 

She was good at her own destruction. And finally recognized it. 

* * *

* * *

She spent the walk back to the cabin in a fruitless thought spiral of trying to figure out why she found Marsh tactics so personally upsetting. She needed to focus on her job, not her feelings. Even if said feelings were trying to tell her _something_. She could do this. She _had_ to do this. 

She couldn’t do this. 

Not today at least. 

Samuel had huffed and blown on the steepest part of trail, in a very out of character manner. If even Samule was picking up on her foul mood, she needed to try and get her emotions settled enough that she could do her job. Or there would be literal Hell to pay. 

A miracle had gotten everything clean and tucked away in the cabin to be returned the next day, once she dealt with mending. Samule had immediately gone and rolled as soon as she took his pack saddle off. She needed something physical to try and clear her mind, get her back on task. 

She decided to spend the time checking Samule’s harness by hand. She hadn’t loaded him down like this in weeks, there was a chance his fussing had nothing to do with her and was just a reaction to being pinched by a fully loaded pack. She took his pack saddle on and off again repeatedly trying to figure out what part of the tree might be pinching Samule and making him uncomfortable once it was loaded to maximum weight. This would be good practice for trying to read someone else without actually being able to read them directly. Which is what she might have to do with Marsh. 

She’d just focus on figuring this out the human way. Take his saddle off. Put it back on. Adjust a strap. Watch his ears, watch his tail, see the shift of his feet to tell he didn’t like how the pack sat on him. Repeat. Lose herself in repetition without trying to feel someone else’s feelings. 

Just her own. 

Watch Samule’s ears come forward and nostrils shift as his head came around to shove against her for attention. Pets. Give pets. She wished her desires were so easy to share. Touch me. Put gentle hands on me. Show me you _love_ me. She was holding his big stupid head and stroking his ears and crying. This was so _stupid_. 

She’d done everything he asked without saying. Had given back to him everything he gave to her. Responded to his desires. All but said the words to his face. But had finally asked for one thing to try and keep them safe and it had been too much. He didn’t trust her. Hadn’t even trusted her enough to talk about it. She didn’t know why. He wanted her to be safe! And had refused her! 

She’d needed it for insurance. She’d screwed up with Hell. She’d told them _no_ , if not quite so directly. She’d done everything to convince them to send _anyone_ else. She wasn’t needed to make it worse. War was there. All the Horseman were. Crowley wasn’t needed. Crowley didn’t take credit for that war. Or any of the colonial atrocities that couldn’t be qualified as war, because war implied both sides had fought… not just massacred the other. She could have taken credit for so many atrocities and just... hadn’t. She’d been distracted and couldn't bring herself to claim them these days. It put the lie to her argument that she could cause plenty of anguish in the Empire by whispering in London. Afterall, the sun never set on the Empire. She didn’t need to go abroad. There was almost no abroad left. The Empire was everywhere. 

She’d argued too hard to stay in London. Where her hereditary adversary was. Where she was unseen amidst so many people. Where she could be seen by only one person. Who hadn’t trusted her enough to let her arm herself when she needed protection. She’d asked for protection. He had thought she’d hurt herself. 

She didn’t understand why he had thought that. Thought she’d extinguish herself with it. And she couldn’t tell what he wanted. What he desired other than to be _safe_. That's what she’d asked for. Help to stay safe. He hadn’t given it to her. _It’s what he wanted._

And he didn’t want _her_. That had been clear. They hadn’t spoken after that. He’d thrown her out when she’d come by. Treated her like… like a demon. She didn’t know what to do. He wanted to be _safe_. That’s all she could sense. He wanted to be safe. He wasn’t safe with her. She _was_ the danger. She couldn’t be trusted. He wanted her away from him. It had hurt so badly. She had thought she understood. She hadn’t at all. That brief few years where it seemed like she had been what he wanted, she had been wrong. He’d wanted something else, not _her,_ and she’d just been unable to figure it out. She was an awful demon. Couldn’t even figure out one stupid angel’s desire. 

Samule was big and warm and smelled like hay and dust. Horses mistrusted her. Donkeys hated her. Why would some stupid weird human creation made from both of them keep bumping his big stupid nose against her and nibbling on her hair? Didn’t he know she was a _demon_? She was _unlovable_? _Unwanted_? 

She shoved his head away and scrubbed an arm across her face. This was stupid. She was stupid. She was a demon and there was no point crying about it. A nose got poked into her face as he tried to steal her glasses again. 

“Leave me alone!” She hissed at him but he merely pulled his head back and snorted at her. Fine, she’d show him, show everyone. She flared her wings out and that was quite enough to make Samule whirl and go to the far corner of the corral. She could see the long ears pinned pack. Heard the stomp of a foot. She reconsidered. If she got discorporated by her own mule… She made everything hate her. Her wings drooped and she contemplated just fleeing. _Again_. She couldn’t do this anymore. 

She heard the snort and saw one ear flick forward. Then the other. She saw him stretch out his neck and curl his lip slightly, nostrils flaring. Then he was in motion and she froze. She’d been trampled by horses several times. It had hurt badly. Then that big head was being shoved into her wing and she squeaked at him as her feathers got lipped and pulled on. 

“You… you… THAT’S MINE!” She twitched her wing away and Samule jerked his head back. Then was right back in trying to shove his nose into her wings. He loved chasing birds that landed near his water. She’d thought he was driving them away. She was starting to have suspicions that he was trying to play with them. 

“You’re ridiculous. I’m a _demon_.” And he had no idea what that was other than the person that fed and groomed him and put a pack saddle on him a few times a week to do very little work. He’d had scars across his flanks and had been half lame when she got him from a prospector that was selling him in town. He was giving up and going home. A brokedown mule was all he had left to sell to try and get a ticket back East. She’d overpaid for him. It had been enough for the ticket. It hadn’t mattered to her. It had mattered to him. It had mattered to Samule. 

“Are you bored now? Is that why you try to take my glasses? Should I get you toys? Do mules like toys?” As Samule was attempting to lip her feathers again. She’d have to fix those later. She folded her wings away and he startled at that but then was back immediately shoving his nose into her shoulders trying to figure out where they’d gone. 

“You’re ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.” She took her glasses off to scrub at her wet eyes. Samule tried to pull them out of her hands. 

“If I turn you loose will you come back? I don’t know what to do with you. You’re a pest. Maybe I should just have more fence. Then you’d have more space. Have more things to do. I’m sorry I tried to scare you.” She pulled his head close to scratch along his jaw. 

“I don’t know what to do with you. You don’t know what I am other than… me. You’re not scared of me. You should be. I’m not… nice.” As she found just the right spot under his jaw and he twisted his head into getting scratched. His eyes were closed. He trusted she’d watch for danger. She _should_ have been the danger. She _wasn’t._

“I… am nice. Sometimes. If I have a reason for it. There’s got to be a reason. I’ve got to have reasons for doing things. That I can justify. You’re my disguise. I need you. That’s why. And I need to take care of my disguise.” Her disguise was stretching his neck up so she’d scratch the really good spot. She didn’t have to do any of this. She wanted to _be_ wanted. Even if it was just by an animal. He probably couldn’t tell her apart from any other human. She wasn’t human. His previous human owner had not treated him as well as she did now. She was a terrible demon. She might be a not-so-terrible human. 

“This is ridiculous. You don’t understand what I’m saying. You’re not a thing I can control. You’re not a beast of Hell. I don’t know what you want other than being looked after. Scratched. I don’t need to try and keep you safe. You can take care of yourself. You’re not afraid of anything. Especially me. I’m… too nice to you. I saw what people tried to do with the horses here. With the other animals. With the other _people_. I don’t need to do anything for people to be ….people. Just take credit for it. I can’t even bring myself to take credit for some of the worst things anymore. They’re so big, so vast. No one person, one demon can be responsible for them anymore. I’m supposed to destroy these people. Push them to be the worst version of themselves. I’m… I’m doing a bad job of it. I’m bad at being a demon. I don’t like it. I don’t think I’m supposed to like it. But that’s what I was made into. I made… bad choices. Asked the wrong questions. And now… I’m this. This is _stupid_. I’m talking to a mule.” 

The ears were focused on her though. Flicked as she stopped talking. Samule leaned into her for more petting. 

“Fine, fine. I can’t talk to humans. I can’t talk to demons. I can’t talk to...him. I guess you’ll do. I should get your brush. Do your feet too.” She stopped scratching him and walked towards the cabin to fetch the brush and hoof pick. Samule followed close behind. She heard a rattle of hooves on the boards of the porch. “No, no, no mules in the cabin!” 

She fetched the tools and got to brushing him out. It didn’t matter how much she brushed him really. It was always so dusty that he could always use more. It was the part she liked least about the area. It was beautiful and so different from home. She paused for a moment. Home. Was it home? Did she even have one? She had places she slept. She didn’t really have a home. She thought she might have been making one. _With_ someone. Who didn’t want her anymore. 

“I don’t know what I want. Maybe I just want to stay somewhere. Build a human life. Maybe I don’t want him at all.” The entire thought _hurt_. That she didn’t want _him_ and never had. Who’s desire had it been then if it wasn’t hers? If he didn’t want her, she couldn’t just have been responding to him. That was all hers. But did she still want him? _Desperately._ All those nights sewing where she’d been drawn into talking about him made it impossible to pretend she didn’t. But he didn’t want her. He wanted to be safe more than he wanted her. She’d asked for protection and he’d refused. They were enemies. He couldn’t keep _himself_ safe, asking for him to protect her had been too much. 

It _had_ been a big escalation. She didn’t even own any other dedicated weapons at the time. She had some knives, but those were _tools._ They weren’t just for killing. She was a _demon_. She had miracles. They didn’t work well on other infernal beings, but she was clever. She could turn the whole world to her will with enough imagination and she had plenty of that. She could pull herself out of time to think if she just needed that. She could slide along the telegraph lines now and travel further and faster than anyone else could fly. She didn’t really need dedicated weapons like that. 

Why _had_ she even wanted it? 

She _hadn’t_. Aziraphale had wanted to be _safe_. 

“I didn’t want that at all. I do want to be safe. I do. But not like that. If I get to that point where I have to fight like that… it's because I had no other options. I have other options. That’s why I’m HERE. This is my option. Be a good demon.” She looked at Samule as he leaned into her brushing him. She didn’t have to be a demon to him. She wasn’t supposed to corrupt him. Animals weren’t their business. She could be as nice to him as she wanted. A smile briefly crept over her face as she scratched him in earnest, watching his eyes close in pleasure. Humans… however... 

“I don’t like hurting humans if I can avoid it. If Hell doesn’t tell me to. If I don’t have to make a quota. They hurt themselves enough if given the chance. I just offer them the temptation. It’s up to them what they do with it.” Aziraphale had thought she would hurt herself if he gave her a weapon. Like she was _human_. But she wouldn’t hurt herself like that. She hurt herself in enough other ways. She frowned at the thought, feeling how true it was. 

Aziraphale understood weapons. It was written into his Nature. He understood their power and use. Their _misuse_. He had various swords. Not the one he’d given away, just mundane ones made by humans. Just wielded with inhuman skill. She’d seen them. She’d seen them in his hands and how comfortable he looked with them there. He’d kept up with them. He had the skill and the power to be able to fight to wound or disarm rather than kill humans. On the rare occasions Crowley had to fight hand to hand with humans instead of using miracles, she had neither the skill nor power to be able to hold back. To strike with such restraint. She had to be creative and rely on miracles if she wanted to avoid striking a killing blow against a human. 

Guns were a different matter. Aziraphale used guns only when strictly necessary and otherwise refused to have them around. The last time she’d personally seen him using one it had been a flintlock in one of the various rebellions where Aziraphale was supposed to be a warrior for God. He never asked Crowley to do those missions. It made their meetings more awkward when they did cross paths then. 

But pleasure shooting… He’d begged off many assignments that way. Traded them to her because he was a terrible shot, allegedly. Aziraphale was a decent shot with a bow. She was fairly sure he saw better than she did. They were different weapons though, so it might not be entirely a lie that he was a bad shot But she was an _excellent_ shot with both at long range. She didn’t see as well, but she could make the calculations and adjustments for all the variables quite well without requiring a miracle. Understanding the pull of gravity vs velocity modulated by rotation and shear was part of _her_ Nature. It was just on a tiny scale now. When she backed it up with miracles, she was both an excellent shot and excellent at avoiding the same. 

So far as everyone knew, she was as terrible with guns as she was with swords. She had a reputation as a terrible shot. She hit _exactly_ where she was aiming. She _liked_ target shooting, but recognized the temptation there to move from easy targets to hard ones, ones that might actively try to evade her. It felt as if she was using skills that even the Fall could not totally wipe away or warp. It was a skill she’d never used for destruction, only creation. Even if she could no longer kindle a star to make it all self-sustaining, it satisfied some desire to be as she was Made and she didn’t want to taint it with how she was now. Hell couldn’t ask her to do something it didn’t know she _could_. 

She wasn’t sure if Aziraphale knew. He likely _suspected_. He knew weapons. He knew what they could do in his hands. In the hands of others. Knew the odds that she’d hit something accidentally eventually. Trusted her with this task anyway. He _must_ know, sense some piece of her Nature. 

Since the shop opened he had traded many, many times with her to get out of having to go out riding on a hunt with some noble he was supposed to be guided to the light while he killed for _sport_. For fun. They were such frequent assignments that he’d joked he should probably just buy a rifle at this point. He’d have to do some of those assignments eventually. He hadn’t bought one. Neither of them had. Neither had purposefully acquired a weapon in centuries. Only taken one pressed into their hands. 

Maybe that was part of it. He couldn’t shoot a living creature, even when he was supposed to. But he did everything in his power to avoid being put in the position where he’d have to convincingly miss. Didn’t trust his skill _to_ miss. He understood the power of a weapon. Understood how easy it was to have things go awry. And a gun was a weapon that was easily twisted around. Shooting parties she was in constantly returned empty handed. Like they had been cursed for daring to go kill for sport. Which they very much had but Heaven would never have approved of such miraculous escapes for mere beasts. They barely approved of them for humans. 

Maybe that was it. It hadn’t been that he had feared Crowley would hurt himself. The request had been a terrifying reminder that Aziraphale could be commanded to hurt Crowley. That he couldn’t keep her safe _from_ him. The request had reminded him that there were even more terrible weapons than what humans had. That he might be asked to pick up and use. He’d given away his most powerful one. The one that could have been used to truly kill her. And then she’d asked him to pick up something worse. Confronted with the sudden question of ‘what would you do with this, the most deadly weapon you could ever be asked to handle, would you use it like you’re supposed to? 

Maybe he _did_ trust her. Maybe he didn’t trust _himself_. But that was the question, did he now trust himself to know what the right thing was? Was the right thing to use that weapon as intended and extinguish the demon in front of him or press it into her hands and trust she’d use it only for protection? 

She was _good_ at being a demon. She hadn’t even meant to tempt him, to plant that seed of self doubt in him. She didn’t directly hurt people. She just put a weapon in someone’s hand. Then asked them about what was the worst thing they could do with it and would they. Are you who you think you are? Are you who you think you _should_ be? 

She might actually _need_ that deadly weapon some day when she needed to tell Hell ‘no’. When she needed to fight for something. But she couldn’t ask him for it again. Couldn’t ask him to try and answer that question of if he could kill her. He would have to work that out on his own. 

They might both be looking at the future but they saw two very different ends. Aziraphale _saw_ an end. The End. Armageddon would come eventually. There would be a war. There would be a final battle. That was what the Great Plan said. If you believed in that it was all written ahead of time. If that cruelty and carnage had all been written in ahead of time, it didn’t matter what she did to stop it. It would happen anyway. The real difference was if she tried to stop it or not. It might not matter to anyone else, but how she _felt_ about her own actions _mattered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> solemn promise, Samule will be FINE. He's a good boy and comes out of this whole story just fine! and steals Crowley's glasses. again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [ Tarek, Giver of Cookies ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies) for the beta reading. Go see their art for the rest of the MiniBang!


End file.
